


Legacy

by ivorytower



Series: Unity [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, make fun of the wow comic e'ery day, unityverse, warcraft - unity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Dark Portal opened, Thrall leads the Second Expedition to Draenor in search of the people who were left behind. In Kalimdor, Jaina has opened her home to the displaced Sin'dorei and plays host to their leader, Kael'thas Sunstrider, but there is much he is keeping from her, reopening old wounds and widening the rift between them. Apart, Thrall and Jaina will face great challenges, facing the legacy of the past, and creating a legacy of their own.</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>Fic betaed by Doomhamster, who is wonderful. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Late Spring, Year 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Part I: Durotar**

The first thing that he noticed as he woke was that he was wet. Awareness trickled in slowly: there was rushing water around his legs, tugging at his trousers, and his hands were pressed against the dirt. His hands closed around it and it crumbled, and he was surprised at how hot it was, nearly burning him as he shook off the red dirt. More alert now, he could feel the oppressive heat of the sun through his ragged shirt, and the parts of him that weren’t wet from the rushing water prickled with sweat.

Slowly, he began to move, grasping at the shoreline, trying to pull himself from the rushing river. He shook as he moved, his limbs weak and sluggish, and tried to determine what was going on.

 _What happened?_ he wondered as he pushed himself forward with a knee, wincing as he slid. _Where am I? How did I get here?_ As he fought to remember, a buzzing sound filled his ears, pressing down on him like a pair of hands. Every question brought pain, and he grimaced as the sound grew louder and more oppressive. He felt pressure building in his mind, squeezing his mind until he cried out in agony.

The sound was almost enough to make him miss the sound of hissing that was sudden, urgent, and loud to his right. His eyes flew open as he looked towards the sound. He cried out again, and with strength he didn’t know he had, he pushed himself hurriedly away in the other direction, landing on his backside, half-laying on the shore.

Moving towards him at a rapid pace was a reptile of some kind, huge and long, covered in upturned, spiked scales. Its six legs propelled the creature through the water with rapid efficiency, and it had a long snout, jagged teeth not quite fitting inside its huge mouth. His thoughts came in jagged pieces -- _the tail! The teeth! I’ve got to move!_ \-- as he scrabbled back against the sands. Digging his heels in hard, he shoved himself up onto the hot sand and out of the water. Now his wet trousers felt twice as heavy, and in a panic, he tore at them, doing his best to get them off. He threw them at the reptile, striking it square in the snout.

 _There, that’s got it,_ he thought in triumph, watching as the reptile shook its head back and forth, trying to dislodge the soaking material. _Now, all I have to do is--_ The creature flung the trousers away, and they landed behind it, on the shoreline of what he could see now was a great, rushing river. It lunged towards him, and he cried out again, pushing himself backwards, and further backwards, like unto a rather awkward crab.

 _Can I run fast enough?_ he wondered, as cold fear penetrated him. The reptile was coming closer. _Should I run? Should I play dead? Some kind of predator leaves you alone if you’re dead. I don’t remember, I can’t--_

“You were right, orc,” said a voice from behind him. “There was a soul in trouble here.”

“Please, Valeera, I have a name,” said another, the voice deep where the first was light, and there was something about the sound of it that made him shiver. “And it was the spirits that called me to this place.”

“The spirits called you, but they aren’t helping us now, are they?” the first said, and he recognized it as a woman’s voice, though disdainful instead of soft as he imagined. He couldn’t recall the name of the woman whose voice he recalled, only that it was kind.

“The spirits provide the opportunity. We provide the means. Human, stay well clear of the water!” the second called. Before he could so much as call out his agreement, he felt a tingling across his arms and down his spine: a bolt of lightning streaked past him, not from the clear sky or the beating sun above, but from behind him.

The reptile, immersed as it was in water, fared poorly, and the smell of charred meat reached his nostrils. All of a sudden, it was too much: he rolled to one side and heaved. His stomach held little, as though it had been a long time since he had last eaten, and for long moments, all he could taste was bile and fear.

“You’re alright, human,” said a third voice, also male. He felt a hand touch his back and he flinched. The hand moved a moment later. “Fear not, we will not harm you. Let’s have a look at you, hm?”

Slowly, he pushed himself back into a sitting position, and looked at his saviours: the woman was an elf. He recognized her kind, pale pink, with long, slender ears and piercing green eyes. Her hair was blonde, brushing her shoulders, and she wore a red hood and cape, though these seemed ludicrous in the face of the burning sun. Her armour was in leather, tight-fitting and concealing. He could see at least two daggers at her sides, and suspected there were a dozen more hidden on her person.

The second person, standing further back, was an orc, and the very sight of him sent another prickle along his back. This orc wore leather and mail in equal measure, and instead of chest armour seemed to wear a leather harness, showing off muscles, scars, and the occasional tattoo. Most notably, the orc wore a headdress, some kind of animal head draped over his hair and shoulders. Something nagged in his mind, but he ignored it in the face of immediate need.

The person closest to him, the one who had touched him and told him he wasn’t to be harmed, was a surprise. Like the woman, he had long ears, though they, like the rest of his skin, were a shade of pale purple. His hair, far longer than anyone’s he’d ever seen, was a brilliant green, like that of rich silks from far away lands -- and if he focused on the notion of rich silks, his head began to ache again -- and his eyes were silver and overshadowed by long, feathery green brows. The purple-skinned elf did not wear a shirt at all, revealing rippling stomach muscles, and as his gaze lingered there, he noticed a series of particularly brutal looking scars. The elf wore a long skirt -- a kilt, perhaps -- patterned like leaves, and simple sandals.

Noticing his gaze, the elf smiled. “It is a tradition of my people. What is your name, human? How did you come to tussle with a crocolisk?”

“Is… that what that thing was called?” he croaked, and coughed, tasting bile again. “Thank you, for saving me. I…” He coughed again, harder, as the pressure from earlier returned. “My name… is…”

“Rehgar, he needs water,” the elf called out. “And pants.”

“Just so, Broll,” the orc called out, and shouted behind him. “Bloodeye! A flask!”

“Warchief’s balls, shaman, I’m a gladiator, not a servant!” bellowed a voice in return, and Rehgar scowled, even as the woman laughed.

“We’re all servants of the spirits and the Horde, and unless you’re too _weak_ and _lazy_ to lift one little water pouch, I suggest you do as I ask!”

“Horde? Warchief?” he blurted out to Broll, who peered at him with growing concern. “Who… what…?”

“Easy there, Durotar’s sun has likely addled you, though it’s a mystery how you got so far from home on your own,” Broll said. Within a few moments, a second orc, this one tall and overly-muscled, strode over to him. This one had a shaved head, save for a long topknot, tied back with a length of red cloth. He wore leather trousers that were tight against meaty thighs, and his feet were bare, as though defying the baking heat. In one hand, he bore a flask, bulging with water, and the other rested on the hilt of the axe strapped to his side.

Broll took the flask with a murmur of thanks. The orc -- Bloodeye -- snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, showing off scars and tattooed marks, all simple, short lines that covered the backs of both arms.

Broll handed him the flask and he drank eagerly. The water was warm, but it still refreshed him, washing the taste of bile from his mouth. The pressure in his mind mounted with each desperate gulp until all the water was gone, and Broll’s brows were raised with concern.

“My name. You asked me my name.” He wiped at his mouth, and suddenly he wished he hadn’t drank so quickly. His tongue felt dry, and the pressure increased to feeling as though something was stabbing at the back of his eyes. White flashed over his vision. “I… am…”

“Well?” Bloodeye demanded. “Human, say your name.”

“Let him--”

A wave of white passed over his vision and, very suddenly, he fainted onto the hot sands of Durotar, and knew no more.

~ * ~

_"She's bleeding!" The voice was urgent and familiar, but the name flew away from his mind in a gust. He could see a man, his eyes emerald and concerned, standing over a woman laying in bed. Her face was twisted in agony, legs shaking. Around her legs, the blankets were soaked with blood. There was a thin, reedy sound of an infant crying, though it was hardly audible around the pounding of his ears._

_"What is it? What's wrong with her?!" he heard himself say, his voice panicked and loud._

_"I don't know, the doctor-- where's the doctor!"_

_The woman's eyes fluttered open, looking over at him with burgundy eyes. He felt his heart flutter, even as his stomach dropped. She murmured his name, but he could not understand it. He leaned in close. "What is it? What--"_

_"How could... you do this to me..?" Her voice came as a breathy whisper. "Murderer..."_

_He went cold, and he felt moisture run down his face. "No..." Her eyes closed again, and she went still. "No--!"_

He jerked up abruptly, and something fell from his face. The elf woman, Valeera, sat back abruptly, avoiding being hit by his forehead. "Easy now, Dusty," she said. She tempered her tone. "It was just a bad dream."

"A dream... she was dying and it was my fault."

"I can't say what you dreamt of, but know that dreams, both good and bad, are ephemeral. They can't harm you." Valeera reached forward, plucking the wet rag up. "We'll need a new one of these."

"Sorry," he muttered. "You called me Dusty, is that my name?"

"No idea, but we had to call you something other than 'the human', and you were covered in mud when we rescued you. Dusty seemed better than Muddy."

"I don't think I'd want my name to be Mud," he muttered. "It doesn't feel right."

"It's a work in progress," Valeera said, shrugging. "How's your head?"

He touched at his temple lightly. "It feels... fogged. There's so much I don't remember. I'm not even sure where I am."

"Well, over yonder is the Southfury River, bordering between Durotar, home of the Horde, and the Barrens, claimed by that same Horde." He gave her a blank look, and she added, "on the continent of Kalimdor."

"Kalimdor..." he muttered. "I was supposed to... meet someone here." He flinched, holding his head. "I wonder if I was attacked while travelling to meet them."

"I'm not sure how else you would have gotten here," Valeera commented. "The river's pretty much in the middle of the continent. You couldn't have washed up this far inland."

"No, that seems ridiculous," he agreed. "Thank you, all of you, for saving me."

"As Rehgar said, his spirits led us here." Valeera thumbed behind her. "I don't think that it was because we were having crocolisk for dinner, though Bloodeye is certainly taking the opportunity."

"Is that really his name?" He rubbed at his head, and found his his hair in terrible disarray, tumbling over his shoulders like a mane. "That's worse than Dusty."

Valeera laughed softly. "It's his duelling handle. He wants to become a great gladiator in the arena of Eldre'thalas."

"Just tell him my life story, why don't you?!" Bloodeye bellowed, annoyed. He looked over, seeing the orc standing over the roasting carcass of the crocolisk, poking at it as it cooked. He flinched, and focused on the dead animal, grateful for the distraction.

"Maybe I will," Valeera called back. "Assuming you don't bring the prides down on us by yelling all the time."

"Bloody elves," Bloodeye grumbled, and went back to his task. Valeera touched his arm lightly, and he turned to face her, peering into her bright green eyes.

"Bloodeye came to Kalimdor when the Horde came with their Warchief. Their Warchief had goblin allies that helped them build their great city of Orgrimmar, and goblins have money, gold mostly. He tried to make money via gambling and failed."

"Getting into debt is dangerous and foolish," he noted, feeling confident in this. "Especially with goblin bankers.”

Valeera gave him a curious look, but nodded. “So he learned to his regret. Many of the ways to acquire wealth in Durotar are slow. Farming, fishing, mining. Working for the Warchief in some way. Bloodeye needs money fast. He signed a contract, negotiating that if he becomes a successful gladiator, his prize money will for the most part be deferred to his creditors. There are a few arenas, here and there, but since the practice isn’t directly condoned by the Warchief and his council, Bloodeye is going south to Eldre’thalas. It’s popular with the ogres, from what I understand, and the Highborne enjoy their diversions.”

“Highborne?” he asked, absorbing this. “That sounds familiar, I think.”

“My people derived their name from the Highborne, when we were all High Elves,” Valeera said, her expression becoming closed off. “The Highborne were the mage-caste of the old Kaldorei empire.”

“Kaldorei… that sounds familiar, but…”

“In Common, they are called Night Elves, or the Children of the Stars, if you’re feeling poetic.” She snorted softly. “Broll is Kaldorei. You may notice some differences between us.”

“That’s why he’s so purple, and so--” He stopped, and ducked his head.

“Muscled?” Valeera teased. “Living in the woods will do that to you, but I prefer cities.”

“And yet you’re here, skinny one,” said Broll, his voice deep and amused. “Grubbing about in the dust with the rest of us.”

“We all have our reasons for going to Eldre’thalas, O Shirtless Wonder,” Valeera replied, though there was a broad smile on her face. “Was your mission successful?”

“It was, Dusty’s clothes are clean, though we’ll need to make a stop at the Crossroads to pick something up for him. These rags aren't fit to wipe a kodo's behind." Broll passed his clothes over, and Dusty -- that didn't seem quite right -- turned them over in his hands, frowning.

"These are my worldly possessions," Dusty objected. "Don't call them trash."

"I sympathize," Broll said, his voice sad. "But whatever life you led, it does you no good to cling to it. Let it go, and get pants that aren't rent up the sides."

Dusty nodded. "Could you, ah, turn around so I can dress and get up?" His stomach growled. "And eat."

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," Broll and Valeera said at the same time, and then laughed. Dusty felt his cheeks heat. "We'll leave you to it."

Valeera stood up, taking the wet cloth with her, and Broll offered Dusty a pat on the shoulder before heading off with her. Their banter continued, and Valeera laughed again. Dusty only listened with half an ear, instead focusing on pulling the ragged shirt on, and swinging himself down from the makeshift bed.

They had put him inside a caravan, the sides were open to the sun. His bare feet hung above the ground as he worked his trousers on, and made a face as he saw the ragged ends, not far below his knees.

 _I'm not sure what I was thinking, wearing so little clothing,_ Dusty thought, and eased himself down. The ground was indeed hot, and he walked gingerly, trying to get used to it. He visited the fire first, peering at the charred crocolisk.

"It'll be done when it's done," Bloodeye growled. "And if you think you need them, there are sandals in the caravan, not far from where you slept. Valeera thought you might burn your wee footsies on proper orcish land." He snorted. "We have no time to haul around a crippled human along with an amnesiac one."

"Amnesia..." Dusty murmured, letting the rest of his words flow over him. "Is that what I have?"

"What else do you call a man who wakes up with no memories?" Bloodeye demanded. "He might hit his head and forget how to remember, and need to be told things over and over again. I had a friend like that. He can never be a warrior."

"What happened to him?" Dusty asked, reflexively moving his hand to touch his head. It gave a dull throb, but he detected no injury. Bloodeye scowled at him, and gave the crocolisk a savage jab.

"We were in the camps," the orc said at length. "He was standing up to the guards -- humans -- and they beat him until he didn't move. When he woke up, there were things he couldn't remember. Still can't remember."

"I'm sorry," Dusty said, and his head throbbed again. "Can't he be healed?"

"What healing was there in the camps for the likes of us?" Bloodeye demanded. "His family protects him now, the same people he lost his life protecting."

"He's not dead," Dusty objected. "He just can't remember things."

"It's not much of one," Bloodeye growled. "That's why you don't rely on a good heart to get you through life. It gets you a cracked head and a dinner of thin soup every night. There's no point in roaring and turning into a mouse."

"That's very cynical of you," Dusty observed, and then made his way back to the caravan, retrieving the sandals and dropping them onto the ground with a soft cloud of dust. He slipped his feet into them, and sighed with relief. He glanced over at Bloodeye, who scowled at him, discouraging further conversation. Looking over, he saw Valeera and Broll's heads bent in conversation, and Rehgar was nowhere to be seen.

 _May as well take a walk then,_ Dusty thought, and began to walk, though he looked over his shoulder, keeping the caravan in sight. As the land began to rise, he let the effort drive his worries from his mind, and focused on not slipping or falling. At the top of the crest, he could see the land before him. The grasses were green, mixed with pale brown, blowing gently in the slight wind. Dotted along the landscape were houses, and he heard the indistinct voices of farmers and their families, and the noises of cattle -- _cows? Pigs?_ \-- on the wind. Distantly, to the west, he could see the walls of a small settlement, and the tops of red-roofed buildings. _Is that a farming community?_ he wondered. _I suppose they couldn’t really supply us, but--_

There was a mighty sound, the roar of a large creature. Dusty looked around warily, seeking out the sound. Beneath one of the low, wide trees, a shaded figure moved. As he watched, he saw that it was a feline, massive and tan, with a wild brown mane. In response, another feline roared back, quieter, but reassuring. A handful of mewls followed from their litter. The feline roared again, and Dusty felt as though there was approval in that, knowing that his family was safe, hale, and whole. He sat down, ignoring the heat, to watch them.

There was something about the sight that eased the ache in his mind, something reassuring. _Am I envious of an animal?_ he wondered to himself, and he shook his head a little. _No, I admire an animal. He's strong enough to protect his family, the people he loves, and his life is simple. If I could just remember..._

"Dinner's ready, Dusty," Valeera called from behind him. He started and looked over his shoulder at her. "Admiring the view?"

"I find it soothing,” he said, “but I don’t want you to call me Dusty.”

“Oh?” Valeera asked, looking at him intently. “Did you remember your name?”

“No,” he replied. “But I do know what I want to be called.”

Valeera offered him a hand up and he took it, standing tall. He could feel the sun at his back, and how his hair was a messy halo around him. Valeera raised an eyebrow. “What do you want to be called?”

“Lion.”

~ * ~

“We’ll be heading to the Crossroads next,” Rehgar said. Lion listened quietly as he ate. The crocolisk, charred as it was, nonetheless was tender and quite delicious.

 _All the more because our circumstances were nearly reversed,_ he thought, and held back a smile as he took another big bite. _There’s nothing quite so satisfying as eating the thing that tried to eat you first. Now I understand why some people like to do their own hunting._

“Our new companion will need new clothes, and we’ll need more supplies,” Rehgar continued, nodding to Lion. “It’s the nearest settlement, and the gateway to the rest of Kalimdor.”

“Which is to say, it sits in the middle of a wide-open space, the only trading post within a hawkstrider’s gallop from civilization,” Vereesa murmured to him, and Lion blinked, trying to visualize how far that might be. “It’s fairly isolated.”

“And often attacked, as I understand it,” Broll added, working his way through his own charred crocolisk flank. “There was one a few years ago, wasn’t there?”

“Centaurs,” Rehgar agreed grimly. “As a distraction for warlocks doing their evil work.”

"Warlocks?" Lion asked. "What are warlocks?"

"Servants of demons," Rehgar growled. "Pawns of the Burning Legion. In this case, a warlock named Neeru Fireblade compelled other, lesser warlocks to kidnap a shaman and use her for a dark rite. Fortunately, she was rescued, the demon banished, and Neeru himself was executed for consorting with demons... but he used centaurs as a distraction to attack the Crossroads, where the shaman was stationed. You will meet her when we are there. Sergra is usually ready to speak to visitors, and she is a friend of the Warchief.”

Lion had a vague notion of vast corridors and stern figures seated behind desks. It was hard to resolve with the image of a half-dressed orc woman, and he shook his head. “Will she have time to see us?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Bloodeye asked with a snort. “She’s a shaman, they listen hard and consider much.” He raised his hands to make a rude gesture, and Rehgar glared him down.

“They do,” the orc shaman said. “We’ll have a good meal tonight and head out in the morning, at dawn.”

Lion nodded, as did the others, though Bloodeye groaned. Broll’s lips quirked into a smile. “You’ll need to get up very early every day for training as a gladiator, friend. Best to get used to it early.”

“I’ll become so famous that they’ll start after noon,” Bloodeye grumbled, and bit into his crocolisk flank hard. “So I can sleep.”

“Keep dreaming, mighty warrior,” Broll said lightly, and Bloodeye grumbled again. The Kaldorei turned to Lion and smiled, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “And how do you feel about rising early?”

“I don’t know that I feel much of anything about it,” Lion admitted. “Though I’d rather be awake than asleep.”

“As do I,” Broll said. “You’re having nightmares?”

“After I collapsed by the river, I had nightmares.” Lion shook his head slightly. “I don’t know if I might be having them other than that. I feel… as though sleeping won’t be restful, if you follow.”

“I do, trust me,” Broll said, reassuring. “But you do need to sleep. Just as it makes one ill to sleep too much, it makes one ill not to sleep enough.”

“How could it make you ill to sleep?” Valeera asked, curious. “I thought it was good to sleep.”

“It’s good to sleep _enough_ ,” Broll cautioned. “Sleeping too much can wear on your body and make you weak. It can wear on your mind, and if you always sleep a great deal, it could be a sign that you’re emotionally unwell and require healer intervention. If you dream too much… you could be lost to the Emerald Dream, and that is dangerous too. That tends only to happen to druids, but anyone who dreams is a part of it, at least until they wake.”

“So, druids don’t have all the answers, then,” Valeera murmured, and Broll gave her an exasperated, if not fond look in return.

“Never have we had them, and never have we claimed to,” Broll replied. “And those who do are fools.”

Lion considered, staring at the crisped meat in his hands as though it could answer all of his questions. Rehgar made an inquiring noise. “It’s… nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing if you’re thinking so deeply,” the orc shaman said. “Tell me of your thoughts.”

“It’s just…” Lion began. “All dreams come from the Emerald Dream, correct?”

“Yes,” Broll said. “For better or worse.”

“Then where do nightmares come from?” Lion asked. “And why do they feel like memories?”

~ * ~

In Lion’s mind, a settlement meant a city. From the moment he had been told of the Crossroads, he’d imagined stone walls and paved streets, canals of water leading from one side of the city to another, and thatched buildings.

There was no white stone that he’d seen in Kalimdor, or at least, not in the Barrens and not, as far as he’d seen, in Durotar. The roads he’d seen here were dirt, hard-packed and lined with placed stones, more a reminder than anything else, where the caravans could pass safely without running into snakes, lion cubs, or the occasional giraffe. Everything was low and open, waving grasses and slowly moving herds of antelope that started at the scent or sound of anything that could be a predator. He’d assumed that the lump he had seen on the horizon had been a mountain.

It was not.

The Crossroads was a trading post, and looked it: it had walls, though these were made of stretched leather and wood rather than gleaming stone, and great gates that could be pulled closed when the need arose. There were no canals, though there was a well at the heart of the trading post, and all pathways led to it. The buildings were made of wood for the most part, long and low, with the more temporary tents and teepees made of stretched leather.

On the far side, within the settlement’s walls but out of the way, was a windmill, turning steadily in the wind, and there was a constant sound of movement and grinding that caught Lion’s attention and held it until he understood how to ignore it. It was no less hot here than it was anywhere else, but between the walls and the buildings, there was plenty of shade.

If this wasn’t enough of a surprise, there was one more to come: while the guards who opened the gates and let them inside had been orcs, dressed in red-painted pieces of armour, lined with leather and chain, the first person to greet them was not.

“Welcome to the Crossroads, travellers!” called out a being Lion had never seen before, not in all his scattered and torn memories: it was tall, and male from the way its voice sounded, and wore a long canvas kilt fastened around a waist leading to broad, thick legs that ended in hooves. He was bare-chested, revealing fur rather than bare skin, and had three strings of beads, white, red, and blue, around his neck, but it was his face that was the most startling. Even orcs, even elves, had features similar enough to humans, but this being had a short neck, and instead of a mouth and nose, a long, broad snout and a lipless smile. He had eyes that faced forward, but they were twice as large as a human’s and expressive, with long lashes that curled as he blinked, and tossed his head to shoo away curious flies, which caused his fall of rough, stiff hair to flutter and clatter with the beads woven into it.

“What-- who is that?” Lion whispered, and Valeera’s ears flicked with interest as Broll leaned over.

“Master Tonga is a tauren,” Broll replied. “One of the natives of southern Kalimdor. They’re very friendly and allies of the orcs. Wave back, say hello.”

Lion did as he was bid, and the tauren smiled even more broadly, and raised a four-fingered hand to wave in return. He anticipated the tauren would greet them, but instead he simply returned to his business, murmuring over turtle-shells and what looked to be wilted weeds.

“He’s simply friendly,” Broll said. “He’s a druid, as I am, though he reports to Hamuul Runetotem rather than to the Cenarion Circle. Our welcoming committee is over there.”

Lion followed the druid’s gaze, and shock moved through him in a wave. Emerging from one of the buildings was an orc woman, likely Sergra Darkthorn, the leader of the settlement. Lion had known that she would be, and that wasn’t the source of surprise. The orc woman wore a loose cotton gown, drawn tight around her waist as it bulged forward, as though late carrying a child.

She turned towards them and raised a hand. Her mouth opened to speak, but Lion could hear nothing, nothing but the roaring in his own ears and the sound of screaming. Dizziness hit him in a wave, and he felt himself falling sideways as the world faded to black.


	2. Late Spring, Year 29

The water of the lake was calm, the surface only rippling a little from the presence of insects and frogs, with the latter eliminating the former with prodigious speed. One of the moons hung low in the sky, bright and silver, while the other, shy, hid in its shadow. The night air was crisp and clear, a touch of Autumn in it, which was why he was carrying the shawl to the figure standing on the low balcony.

“I’m not cold,” she said, even as he set the shawl around her shoulders, and she drew it around her with a sigh. “Not very.”

“There’s no reason for you to be even a little uncomfortable, my love.” He wrapped his arms around her, resting hands over the great swell of her belly. “Either of you.”

“Tell her that, would you?” Even with the darkness, the moonlight that didn’t seem to reach her features, he could tell that she was smiling. “She keeps me up half the night doing the Goldshire Stomp on my bladder.”

“Her, hm?” He moved around her, and pressed his lips to his wife’s distended stomach. “Be nice to your mother and let her sleep. I mean it.” In response, he felt the thrum kick of busy feet. 

“I don’t think it’s working.” The woman stroked his cheek with cool fingers.

“Perhaps if we had a name for her… or she’s a he?” He peered up at her, but could only see the curve of her smile, and a hint of the hair framing her face. Blonde, perhaps.

“We should decide soon, before she’s named after one of your relatives,” the woman teased. “We’ll have a dynasty of rulers with the same three names.”

“It’s traditional, though I had one idea. It _would_ involve naming her after someone I used to know, someone who was family in a sense. I think she’d be proud, knowing that the finest queen Stormwind had ever seen was named after her.”

The wind picked up, bringing with it cold that stabbed into his arms like thousands of daggers. “Would you murder her the way you murdered me?”

The question was like a blow, and he stood quickly. “What… why would you say..? How could you ask such a thing?!”

“ _Murderer,_ ” she accused, and her hands came up, shoving him hard. More startled than overwhelmed, he stumbled back a step, and found his foot briefly hovering over nothing before he fell, plunging into the icy water.

Cold enveloped him like a fist, pulling him down and away from the surface and the woman both.

 _Murderer,_ the water whispered. _Betrayer._

 _No… no…_ He struggled, fighting against the pull of the water, muscles flexing and straining as he reached upwards. _I’m not… I’m not…_

Lion woke slowly, as though fighting his way from the bottom of a lake to the surface. He gasped, clutching at the sheets that covered him. With each sharp breath, he caught the scent of his own fear-stink, and sweat plastered some of his unruly hair to his skin.

"Easy, easy," Valeera said, snagging the wet cloth from his forehead before it could land on the ground. "If we keep meeting like this, people will talk."

"I have detected no illness," said a deep voice. Lion's gaze fell on the tauren creature from earlier. As he calmed, he could see that the tauren was sprinkling herbs onto a brazier, driving away his stench and bringing with it the soft smell of basil and other herbs he didn’t recognize. “But I have been told of your symptoms. You have dizzy spells? Headaches?”

“Yes,” Lion said, drinking in the cleaner air gratefully. “To both. I’ve forgotten things too. Many things. My name, where I’m from… I do remember what happened yesterday, though. So it’s not the amnesia thing Bloodeye described.”

Tonga looked blank, and Broll said something in a low, melodious tone, and the tauren nodded. “Ah, I see. I fear that is not my area of expertise, though I know how to burn an herb or two. There is someone who wishes to speak to you, though. Will you see her?”

Lion glanced between Valeera, who was offering him the wet cloth to wipe his own skin, Broll, cramped against the short, wooden walls of the dwelling, and Rehgar, who had propped himself against some crates. None seemed concerned, and he nodded. “Of course.”

Tonga raised a hand, gesturing to Valeera, and she nodded. While Lion wiped his face, banishing the last of this latest nightmare, she slipped out of the room. A few moments later, she returned with Sergra Darkthorn. All eyes fell to Lion, watching him keenly as he observed her maneuvering her bulk into the room, and accepting the sole chair to sit. He felt his head throb once, but otherwise the dizziness was notable in its absence.

“I feel fine,” Lion said. “Mostly.”

“So you’ll only fall for me once, is that it?” the orc woman asked, and then chuckled. She reached forward, patting his hand, and said, “I’m sorry to hear that you’re unwell. Welcome to the Crossroads, regardless.”

“Thank you.” Lion looked past her, over his shoulder. “Isn’t your husband here?”

“My mate has been gone these past five months at the request of Warchief Thrall.” Sergra folded her hands around her stomach, and Lion felt a wave of unease. “They have both gone, along with a number of others, through the great, Dark Portal once again. The Warchief required Ak’Zeloth’s expertise regarding demons. I was not quite so fat then, of course. The spirits had only just spoken of it when he was called away.”

Lion studied her expression, wondering if he'd misread her because of her orcish features; her jaw seemed no less heavy than Rehgar's, much more so than Valeera's or the woman's from his dream, and while her tusks were smaller, they seemed sharper. Her brow was less sloped than the male orcs he had seen, and unmarked by concern. No, he'd been right, but it confused him. _Why isn't she angry, or afraid? Why would he just leave her like this?_ His own brow furrowed with each new question, his heart beating faster as a lump rose in his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Sergra asked, curious. “Something troubles you.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“About Ak’Zeloth? No, not really. He will return when his work is done and not sooner. I am certain of it. He can care for himself, and he has not gone alone. The Warchief is with him, and the Warchief’s many guards and experts. They will watch over him.”

“What about..?” He struggled to articulate, choking a little, and gestured to her, and she shrugged.

“We shared the news of our first child before he left, and that was good. Before he left, we prepared our home. Our child will have a blanket to keep them warm -- not that it’s too difficult here -- and a good bed to sleep in. He shared his love for me every day we were together, and I am not so forgetful that I would let it slip my mind.” She raised an eyebrow. “No insult intended, your own troubles with memory are not your fault.”

Lion looked to his companions for help, but nothing about their expressions made sense. Broll and Rehgar were smiling, looking well pleased by her words, and while Lion caught Valeera rolling her eyes at the sentimentality, he could see the pleasure that touched at the corner of her lips, giving lie to her exasperation. _I don’t understand… how are they not…_ “Aren’t you afraid? Of dying?”

The orc woman blinked, frowning as she thought. “Well, no. It’s possible it could happen, but my people are strong. Our infants are born small to protect us and allow us to function better, even while pregnant. The spirits, too, are with me, and the druid Tonga will attend me so I am not alone. More than that, if the absolute worst comes, and my mate is not present, there are ways to get emergency transportation in an instant, even on another world, like Draenor.”

“What do you mean?” Lion asked. “Is this something your spirits do?”

“Not in this sense,” Sergra replied. “We are allied with the humans of Theramore. Their leader, Jaina Proudmoore, is a spellcaster of a kind they call mages. Her magic is different from that of shamans or warlocks. In my home, kept in a place of honour, is the communication crystal Jaina gave me so that I might speak to her at any time if there’s trouble. If there’s an emergency, I will speak to her, or Tonga will, and she can teleport here in an instant, bringing with her human doctors or healers. She could also retrieve me and bring me to Orgrimmar for treatment, since she is as welcome there as I am.”

Uneasiness rose and fell in a wave. “Would this Jaina really do such a thing? Drop everything to help you?”

“Of course she would,” Sergra said, a hint of a growl in her voice. “We are friends, she and I. She saved my life at the risk of her own once already, and we came to know each other after that. More than that, she cares about people and looks after them when they need it. It’s why she and the Warchief get along so well together.”

Sergra smiled, and Lion noticed the warmth in her tone, the admiration as she spoke of the human woman. _She seems convinced… so it could be true. I don’t think Sergra is wrong about many things._

“In any case, there is little reason to fear,” Tonga said reassuringly. “Sergra is strong and healthy, and I have every confidence the birthing will go well. She will have a strong son or daughter to present to Ak’Zeloth on his return, and until then, the herd will enclose.”

“See, there is nothing to fear,” Sergra said, though looked to Lion. "You're still confused."

"More about the herd," Lion confessed. "You look not unlike, well, a cow."

Tonga chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "I have heard of such and seen the depictions. I confess I don't see the resemblance. We are the tauren, or Shu'halo, children of the Earthmother."

"The who?" Lion ducked his head. “I’m sorry, I must seem ignorant to you.”

“Oh, but I love to speak of our people,” Tonga said, chuckling. “Ask anyone. I tell many stories.”

“He does,” Sergra noted. “And I think we all enjoy hearing them?” She looked around, and Rehgar and Broll nodded, while Valeera only shrugged. “A captive audience.”

“Excellent,” Tonga said, and closed his eyes briefly, long lashes curling against furred cheeks. “The Earthmother is the world itself, protecting and supporting us since the time when the mists of dawn cleared. The Earthmother watches over us, the most beloved of her children. Once, we lived in Mulgore together, stretched out across her great cradle of the plains. There was peace, harmony, and contentment. We hoped it would last, that this golden age would last eternally, but the sun always sets. It is whispered that a darkness overcame some of the clans, and they began to fight one another. It stained their fur black and the grass red with spilled blood.”

Lion closed his eyes, and he tried to imagine the tauren, people like Tonga, but with fur like that of his memories of cows and deer, russet and white, brown and black. At Tonga’s words, their fur wasn’t merely black, it was soaked in blood, like a shadow on a floor or twisted sheets. He shivered. Broll moved in closer, and put a hand on Lion’s shoulder. Lion nodded once to him.

“In Her grief, the Earthmother tore out her eyes, so that she need not watch her children suffer. She set her eyes in the sky, creating An’she and Mu’sha, the sun and the larger of the two moons.”

“We call them Belore and Elune,” Broll noted, “though I believe Valeera’s people revere Belore rather than Elune, as we do.”

Valeera shrugged again. “There was plenty of sun-and-flame themed architecture there, certainly.”

“When the Shu’halo realized what they had done, they banded together, driving out the most corrupt of the tribes, and cried out to the heavens so that the Earthmother would know that they repented. Her eyes would never return, but as An’she watched over them by day, and Mu’sha by night, the Earthmother pressed her ear to the earth to listen. She became one with the ground we walk on, and all that our hooves touch is her body and is thus sacred to us. We feel the slow pulse of the world, and that is hers.” Tonga spread his hands. “In time, one of the banished tribes would return to us, repentant, vowing to control their rages and violence. The other stubbornly refused, painting themselves with death rather than admit their wrongdoing.”

“The Grimtotem did return, though much more recently,” Rehgar remarked as an aside. “As guests of your Chieftain.”

“Ah, but this is an ancient tale, not a modern one.” Tonga shook his finger at the orc shaman, rebuking him gently. “You race ahead. Mu’sha, the one Broll called Elune, would go on to find one beloved in her sight, the mighty Apa'ro. He was slender and graceful, but very shy. Mu’sha despaired that she would ever be able to talk to him and express her love. A Shu’halo longrunner -- one who is a hunter and a scout -- heard of her plight and with all of his care, dedication, and skill, tricked Apa'ro into leaping away from him, his mighty antlers catching in the stars in the sky. It was there Mu’sha found him and freed him.”

Lion blinked slowly. “I’m sorry, was this Apa'ro… an animal?”

“Of a sort,” Broll said. “Keep in mind, many of these tales are metaphorical, but in our artwork and stories, all of the gods had multiple forms. An’she -- Belore -- was said to be a fire-eagle, or a phoenix. Mu’sha was an owl, like those the Sentinels train as scouts. So yes, Apa'ro -- our Malorne -- looked like a stag, but that wasn’t the only form he had, and his shyness was due to fear of being pursued by a giant white owl. Some birds of prey are large enough to kill fawns or smaller deer.”

“I see, I think,” Lion said, and Valeera gave him a smirk.

“Don’t worry, plenty of ancient tales are full of bestiality and incest. You should hear some of the things the gnomes claim.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Lion said, uncomfortable. “I’m not much one for gods. I do want to hear this story, though,” he added hastily. “We’re interrupting.”

Tonga chuckled, seeming far from offended. “We are not at a formal circle, but it is good for you to know that _formal_ circles have more structured questions and answers as part of the traditional storytelling gatherings. Interrupting during those would be quite rude.”

“I understand,” Lion said. “So… Mu’sha -- Elune -- and Apa'ro -- Malorne -- are the two moons in the sky? I’d always wondered why there are two moons in the sky. Or, at least, I think I did? I don’t remember clearly.”

“Yes, Rehgar said that you had forgotten much. Perhaps if we fill your mind with knowledge, it will awaken that which sleeps within.” Tonga took a moment to gather himself for the next tale. “Mu’sha and Apa'ro loved each other very much, and unto them the Earthmother granted a son, Cenarius. As Apa'ro had come from the forests, so too did Cenarius belong there, taking his father’s place and watching over all of the wilds. He brought forth many children, sons and daughters, keepers of the grove and stewards of the wilds, though our elven friends call them dryads.”

“In case you were curious, Keepers and Dryads are half-elf, half-deer or stag,” Valeera said. “If all the business about a god having sex with a stag wasn’t confusing enough.”

“Valeera is a skeptic in a land where gods walk,” Rehgar noted, amusement underscored with a hint of warning. “These tales were old when either of our people came to this land.”

Valeera nodded once, and pressed her lips together firmly.

“Of Cenarius’ children, two of the Keepers of the Grove were very powerful, Remulos and Zaetar, and they had a sister, elusive, compassionate, and kind, Mylune, named for her grandmother in the elven tongue. Remulos and Zaetar competed much for their father’s attention, each seeking out their own allies. Remulos recruited Mylune, convincing her that, as guardian of all small creatures, joining her power to his would be the best way to protect them, and together, they could teach their children to protect the wilds, far outstripping Zaetar’s efforts. Enraged, Zaetar sought out his own ally, hoping to find a blessing from the earth, but what -- who -- he found was not what he believed it to be. Instead, he found Theradras, an elemental of earth from Deepholm, realm of Therazane. Theradras promised Zaetar not simply her allegiance, but that of all their children, should he agree to wed her.”

Valeera muttered, “See?” under her breath, but Tonga seemed not to hear.

“Zaetar agreed, and the beings they created were the centaur. The centaur are partially like the horses you humans seem fond of, and partially like the creatures called troggs, who are of earth. They are vicious and cruel, and delight in destroying that which is small, gentle, and kind. The centaur fight with bows, to better hunt down that which flies, with spears, to give them the advantage in their great charges, and their skycallers use storms and lightning to destroy trees. When they could not kill more of Remulos’ trees or Mylune’s creatures, their herds sought out the Shu’halo to drive them from Mulgore.”

“Mulgore was sacred to the Earthmother… but not this Therazane?” Lion asked slowly. “Why?”

“Therazane was _of_ earth, but not our precious Earthmother. They were enemies, some believe, and she held onto her hate with both hands. The ancient Shu’halo, remembering what bloodshed had done to the land and to the Earthmother, fled, scattered to the four winds.”

Images flooded Lion’s mind, pushing roughly against the darkness in his memory. He could imagine a people like Tonga’s, standing on the plains that had rolled by on their journey here, looking over in terror as creatures that were mostly horse, with dark riders that became the horses charged down on him. He could remember shrill screams and the shadows of blood on floorboards that became blades of grass.

“Why..?” he began softly, and his companions looked to him. “Why did they never fight back? Why didn’t you?”

Tonga shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have fought the centaur in the past. They are swift on their four legs, though not built for endurance. Should they take a brave unaware, the brave is likely to be holding onto their stomach before they are aware they have taken a blow. We did not fight then, but we were not slaughtered. We endured, and walked where the centaur would not walk. We ranged up and down Kalimdor when it was not merely one continent, but the only one. Each tribe would develop their own methods of fighting, of cooking and weaving. A Runetotem is not entirely like a Whitemane, but nor are they alien and strange. Dividing saved most of the tribes, though not all. Some would simply disappear over the years, slaughtered to the last by the vicious centaur. It is said, by some, that blood does not run in their veins, but hate.”

“But then… why did no one help you?” Lion asked, distress welling in his throat. “Did no one care?”

Broll squeezed Lion’s shoulder comfortingly. “Trust me, they probably didn’t want the Kaldorei’s help. Not then.”

Tonga chuckled. “While our friend is cynical, he is technically correct. The Kaldorei then were not as they are now, open and friendly to outsiders.” Broll snorted, and from the way Tonga merely smiled, he realized the tauren was being ironic. “In ancient days, the Kaldorei were snobbish, isolationist, and superior, confining themselves to forests or cities and refusing to speak to outsiders. The furbolg, confined to living in forests or the northern parts of Kalimdor, have long been trapped in with them, though they get along… well enough.” 

Broll’s second snort was far less friendly than the first. “Those you would have recognized as allies did not exist in ancient days. Not humans, not dwarves. _We_ didn’t know gnomes existed at all, though there are stories of them in the most ancient of days, but few believed them. Golems of brass and glass, not flesh and blood.”

“It is as Broll said,” Tonga agreed. “We Shu’halo had to fight and survive on our own, with the gifts the Earthmother and Cenarius granted us… until the orcs came.”

Sergra shifted, and Lion saw her expression light up with enthusiasm. “When the Warchief led us from Lordaeron to Kalimdor, the ships we had taken were wrecked on the southern shores. In some places, you can still see the bits and pieces. We had become separated from the Warsong early, largely due to our time on the Darkspear Isles in the Maelstrom. Of all of us, they were the least bad at sailing.”

“Why do you say that?” Lion asked, curious. “Didn’t you use boats before, here or on your own world?”

“Any idiot can lash some wood together and make a raft,” Rehgar noted. “But it takes a special kind of idiot to be able to navigate a great ship like the ones we stole, and during the wars, our allies had the fighting ships. We were confined to transportation or labour.”

“The Warsong tended to be that kind of idiot,” Sergra added, snorting. “They had settlements on an _island_ that could be seen more or less from shore. Which is somewhat different from sailing across an ocean.”

“We were fortunate to have the Darkspear,” Rehgar added. “They helped us get to Kalimdor, though our ships were already damaged. Spirits or no, we’d have been lost without them.”

“They have always been excellent allies,” Sergra agreed. “When we arrived, it was not where the Warsong had landed, nor could we find them nearby. We had to look for them, but the Warchief also needed more information than ‘go to Kalimdor’ from a bird.” This time, Valeera was the one to snort. “We travelled north, and fought a bit with the quillboar. It troubled Thrall deeply to do so.”

“Why?” Lion asked, curious. “He was a fighter, wasn’t he?”

“He is a shaman and warrior both,” Sergra said, raising an eyebrow. “He does not fear combat, but he hates the idea that we are only ever capable of fighting and killing. As it happens, the quillboar _like_ to fight. In any case, after the quillboar, we saw some tauren being attacked by the centaur and decided to follow. The Warchief rescued one of the tribal chieftains, Cairne Bloodhoof, and befriended him.”

“Just like that?” Lion asked with a hint of disbelief. “You rescue people and suddenly they’re your closest friends?”

“You’re sitting surrounded by people you met less than a day ago when they rescued _you_ ,” Valeera pointed out. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

“That’s different,” Lion grumbled, though he felt uneasy. “That crocolisk was trying to eat me.”

“What makes you think the centaur weren’t trying to eat _them_?” Sergra asked, and continued as Lion stared at her, aghast. “Together, the Warchief and Cairne found a way to drive back the centaur, allowing the tauren to return to Mulgore after so long. Cairne spread the word to the other tribes, but he didn’t intend on leaving Thrall to wander Kalimdor alone. He knew of an Oracle in the mountains, and this road led to finding the Warsong as well as the humans. He also pledged his tribe to the Horde, and through him, the whole of the united tauren tribes. When the time came and we stood at Hyjal against the demons, the tauren stood with us, including Cairne.”

The feeling of uneasiness rose in Lion’s stomach, gurgling and burbling and clawing at him. His head began to throb in time with the churning. “Couldn’t it be that’s just why Thrall rescued the tauren? So he’d have more fodder to throw in front of the demons?” Rehgar and Sergra both turned to stare at Lion in disbelief and confusion. “Well, couldn’t it?”

“That seems… unlikely,” Rehgar said after a moment. “Warchief Thrall has ever been grateful to his allies, as the rest of us are. He was sincerely pleased that the tauren and the trolls stayed for Hyjal, since the Prophet only called to the orcs, but that was never Thrall’s intent when he rescued them. He has not always been a leader. Once he was a slave, and he’s compassionate towards those that suffer, especially those enslaved by others. All others, not only orcs.”

Lion nodded, and forced the discomfort back. “You must be right.” His head still throbbed, but it was easier to ignore when the orcs smiled and relaxed. “What happened to the tauren after Hyjal?”

“We returned to rebuilding in Mulgore.” Tonga smiled. “Chieftain Bloodhoof gathered as many of the tribes as he could so that he could speak to them and convince them to unite. No more tribes wandering from place to place, being hunted by the centaur or starving because we couldn’t find food or settle long enough to grow it ourselves. We would become one, as the orcs had become. Only Magatha and her Grimtotem refused, though some wished to continue to range, and they do, or live in places like Mojache or Taurajo. Most wanted the stability of Mulgore.”

“Aside from tradition, what did living in Mulgore offer?” Lion asked. “Wouldn’t it still be dangerous?”

“Yes, if we lived without protection, but after so many years, we’d gathered new skills. Mulgore was a long rolling plain, but that’s not all it was. It had great mesas, higher than the centaur could possibly travel, and indeed, farther than we could climb. Instead of living on the plains, we created our permanent homes on top of the mesas.” 

“A mesa is like a flat mountain,” Broll said helpfully. “Though it usually looks not unlike a column, or a tree trunk made of stone.”

“I see,” Lion said. “I think. How did _you_ get up there, if you couldn’t climb any more than they could?”

Tonga leaned forward, almost conspiratorial, the smile on his muzzle widening. Lion leaned forward a little too. “Magic.”

Lion scowled at him. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No,” Tonga said, though he chuckled and sat back once more. “Magic. Specifically, the magic of druids. They carried ropes and anchors so they could bring up our engineers to build the platform for the great elevator. With the elevator came the rest of our people, and all of the supplies we needed to build a settlement.”

“Where did you get supplies?” Lion asked, curious. “Did you go to the goblins, or the orcs?”

“No, no. We were a people who travelled from place to place, so we carried our lives and homes with us across the plains. We brought our supplies with us, primarily tents but also utensils, seeds, food, clothing, and of course, all of our knowledge. Thunder Bluff, the name of our home, is a series of permanent encampments connected by bridges rather than a city as you might imagine it.”

Visions of white stone, paved streets, and canals swam in Lion’s mind, and then disappeared. “I’m beginning to think that’s a theme in Kalimdor.”

“No two cities are entirely alike,” Valeera pointed out. “Perhaps if they’re built by the same people, but not different ones. People have their own… needs.”

“Just so,” Tonga agreed. “Thunder Bluff now has permanent dwellings, great long houses where people can sleep and eat comfortably, and large tents, though rather than temporary, easy to tear down and move structures, these are permanently affixed. Within one of the mesas we found an appropriate cave that we dug out to turn into a cavern of spiritual significance. Our shamans and seers commune with the spirits of our ancestors there, and with the elemental spirits of earth and air, water and fire. We also care for others who require aid there.” 

“That sounds safe, certainly… but where are the farms? How do you get food? Do the orcs and the trolls send it to you?”

“Some of us have our gardens, but most of our farms are on the plains of Mulgore or here, in the southern parts of the Barrens. The intention for Thunder Bluff is not to confine ourselves to one location, but to have a place of safety and sanctuary should the centaur come to call. With it, we could establish villages for our people to live in, and hunting camps. We still have a need for meat and grain, but wells can be rebuilt, fields replanted, tents and homes replaced… our people, however, once lost, are gone forever. We must endure.”

Lion nodded slowly as the words resonated with him, and even the throb that warned about probing too close to the reason why could not drive the feeling away. “Where there’s life, there’s hope. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Rehgar said, his voice firm. “Yes, indeed.”

“How do people feel about living in a city?” Lion asked, curious. “After travelling for so long?”

“Most of us are quite pleased with it,” Tonga said. “I do not live in Thunder Bluff, but I visit. We’re all welcome there, and for the most part, all the tribes participate. The Grimtotem only came to accept its existence recently.”

“The Grimtotem were the tribe that were driven out of Mulgore and didn’t return, correct?”

“Yes,” Tonga said. “The other, the one that returned, were the Ragetotem. Magatha Grimtotem was invited to Thunder Bluff by Cairne in an attempt to convince her of the legitimacy of the city’s existence. She disliked it and her clan followed her example. Unfortunately, that led some of the members of her clan, including her son, Arnak, to side with those who openly attack one of Theramore’s settlements. They believed that, due to her attitude and her desire to neither join nor cooperate with the Horde, she condoned those attacks. She has not precisely changed her mind, but she is not an evil woman. She does not condone murder. Therefore, she has to… grim and bear it.”

Lion groaned along with the others at the pun, and then considered. “You said very little about your farms, but what do tauren actually _eat_. You’ve said meat, which seems strange to me, but what else?”

Tonga’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, you’ll learn exactly what it is we eat when you join us for our evening meal, which you are all invited to, of course.”

“Thank you,” Rehgar said, and Sergra brought her hand down, slapping Lion’s knee lightly.

“If you’re feeling better, I believe I will go,” the orc woman said. “Hand up.” Rehgar stood immediately, and offered his arm to Sergra as she levered herself up from the chair. She planted her feet steadily, and nodded to her fellow shaman, who let her go. “I have work to do, but I will see you all at evening meal. Don’t miss it, because trust me, it’s worthwhile.”

“I won’t,” Lion promised, “and thank you for all you’ve done. I’m sorry I collapsed.”

“Bah,” Sergra said, and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder Broll wasn’t hovering over. “You’ve experienced much difficulty. One can hardly blame you for wanting to become better acquainted with the dirt.”

With that, the orc woman departed, her steps less a confident stride, and more of a waddle, not unlike a duck. Lion watched her go, and concern welled up in his mind once more. “Why does she live all the way out here, instead of with other orcs?”

Tonga patted his knee, his touch gentle and comforting. “While the southern Barrens are occupied by Shu’halo and indeed the quillboar, there are orcish farming communities in the north, and there are orcs _here_ , as you will see. She likes it here, where there is sky above and strong earth below. You need not fear. She is not lonely, even without her mate to hover about her and be swatted when he worries too much. Sergra Darkthorn is a strong woman, an excellent shaman, and she will be a fine mother.”

 _I wish I believed that,_ Lion thought, and closed his eyes. Worrying would only cause his headache to worsen. His mind cast around for a topic, and found one: “Why are the Barrens divided up in such a way?”


	3. Late Spring, Year 29

“Ah, a fascinating question,” Tonga said, looking pleased. “Mulgore, as indicated, is the land of the Shu’halo. Durotar, named for the Warchief’s honoured father Durotan, is the land the orcs have claimed as their own. The Barrens, the lands between Durotar, Mulgore, Ashenvale, and the Thousand Needles, are in many ways a neutral ground, belonging to neither orc nor tauren, and certainly not to the Kaldorei. The quillboar live in the far south, and we have a great elevator that lowers us towards the dry beds of the Thousand Needles.”

“What’s in the Thousand Needles?” Lion asked, curious. “Other than not-water?”

“Centaur, and they can stay there,” Tonga said firmly. “In the northern portions of the Barrens, where the orcs live, there is a bridge that connects them to Durotar.”

“It was right next to where we found you,” Rehgar noted. “It spans the Southfury River, which runs right through to the northern sea.”

“...and has crocolisks,” Lion mutters, and his companions all nodded. “And there are farms?”

“There are,” Rehgar said. “Nothing so much as even a real village since they’re so spread out. Up against the border with Ashenvale, we have the Mor’Shan Ramparts, which is a checkpoint between our land and that of the Kaldorei. We’re permitted limited access to Ashenvale under Kaldorei supervision, and all that access goes through there. Warchief Thrall and High Priestess Whisperwind negotiated some lumber gathering in exchange for work cleansing the land there of demonic taint.”

“...demons?” Lion asked, and Rehgar shook his head.

“Complicated, I can explain later if you still want to know.” He gestured in what Lion assumed was a northerly direction. “We have outposts in the northwestern part of the Barrens to watch out for harpy attacks. They’re…” He looked to Broll.

“Elf birds,” Broll offered. “Elf birds that tend to raid caravans and build great nests.”

“Elf birds,” Lion repeated. “Bizarre.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Broll muttered, but continued: “There’s a passage to the Stonetalon Mountains on the far side of the Barrens, through a narrow pass. There are outposts dotted along it, and there are both Kaldorei and Horde settlements there.”

“Why aren’t there villages?” Lion asked, curious. “You said there were farms.”

“It was an old habit of the orcs of Draenor not to have too many permanent settlements,” Rehgar said. “The land was too poor, and having too many people living too close together was dangerous. We had warriors to protect the farmers when they couldn’t protect themselves, all strung out through any individual clan’s territory. Here, while that’s certainly not the case, we tend to have fewer settlements, and those that exist are meeting places and often serve as trading posts. The Crossroads, as an example, or Razor Hill. If people want to live in a settlement, they live there, or in Orgrimmar.”

“It seems… insecure, if they were to be attacked,” Lion said, uncertain. “But you have outposts to protect them?”

“Yes,” Tonga said. “Watch Towers overlook vast swathes of land along the northern Gold Road, and our own longrunners patrol the southern Gold Road. There are shamans monitoring the mines, too, though those are obviously confined to the mountains and caves.”

“So, what do the orcs grow on their farms? Is it different from what’s in Durotar?”

“Very much so,” Tonga said, and smoothed the leather of his kilt. “In Durotar, much of the farming is herding. Boars, most often. Here, they are able to grow many more plants, and do very little in the way of herding. For grains, they grow oats and barley to make bread.”

“Wheat bread is too soft for our teeth and stomachs,” Rehgar added, tapping his tusks. “These need tough things to chew so they can work.”

“They also grow a plant called hemp,” Tonga said. “It’s extremely useful, and they make many things from it. Clothing, rope, paper, and medicine. Many of the farms also grow firm root vegetables, like potatoes, carrots, and beets, as well as a plant native to their world, _gresht_.”

“ _Gresht_ is a tough plant,” Rehgar said. “It survives where other plants don’t. At times, it was the only plant we were able to grow to eat. If one picks it whole, it can be dehydrated, carried anywhere, and simply rehydrated to get it to grow again. The Warsong managed not to lose theirs, and the Frostwolves had some too. When we brought it here, the farmers were warned to watch carefully where it spreads to so that it doesn’t damage the native plants or animals. It came from another world, we have no idea what it might do.”

“A bit like the orcs themselves,” Valeera noted, and responded to Rehgar’s sharp look with a smile. “What? You’re tough, infinitely transportable, and no one knows quite what you’ll do. You could even farm.”

“True enough, I suppose,” Rehgar said, and smiled. “We have hunting camps in the north as well, for gazelles and some of the other creatures we’ve encountered. It gives the people something to do that isn’t farming, and provides meat that isn’t pork imported from Durotar. They trade with the farmers, and of course, to the Crossroads.”

“Our farms grow different things,” Tonga said, taking up the subject with warmth. “We do grow wheat and corn, as well as beans and many other kinds of vegetables. We’re fond of them, as perhaps you can imagine. We also raise striders, which are birds. We collect their eggs, feathers, and meat. Some of the northern tribes also herd and collect wool from the goats that live near the mountainous areas of Kalimdor. Lowland tauren prefer to grow flax for linen and spin it and weave it into clothing. We do still hunt, and we are proud of that.”

“So, grains and vegetables, and a little meat?” Lion asked, and Tonga nodded. “And orcs are the reverse, sort of?”

“Yes,” Rehgar confirmed. “Orc diets require a great deal of meat, and in the days of Draenor, we would spend hours, sometimes days, hunting when we could find meat. Farming was rarer, and primarily done in places where there was no way to hunt properly, like Shadowmoon Valley.”

“Why didn’t you -- they -- farm?” Lion asked, curious.

“The land was… poor, and sickly. Farms would have stolen the vitality from the land quickly and left those that lived on it to starve,” Rehgar said, and glanced at Valeera when she snorted. “Shadowmoon Valley was desiccated and dead when we lived there, safe for a handful of areas they’d worked and reworked to grow _gresht_ and raise boars. Some of the other clans thought the Shadowmoon were soft for doing it, but none of them had to contend with being mangled by boars the size of worgs or larger.”

“Boars are like quillboar, but half as smart and twice as mean,” Valeera offered to Broll. “And taste delicious.”

“That they do,” Rehgar agreed. “On all accounts. Our vegetables are all tough and only lightly boiled, and _gresht_ is key to keeping our tusks strong, as is the tough oat and barley bread. That doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate softer breads sometimes. Pastry is a new thing to us, and many like it, but it’s a treat. Something sweet to go with a meal, not the meal itself.”

“Dessert,” Valeera suggested. “It would make sense. You wouldn’t have refined sugar or much in the way of fruit.”

“Fruit came to us from the trolls,” Rehgar said. “Before that, never. We don’t seem to need it as much as they do, but they’re generous and willing to share.” He shook his head ruefully. “Especially when it also involves alcohol.”

“Another difference between our diets is, as you will come to know, orcs prefer spicing their meat and bread, whereas we do not. I believe they adopted it from the goblins, who supplied much of their early foodstuffs,” Tonga said. “We find such upsetting on our stomachs, and prefer more savoury seasonings than spicy ones.”

“You’re correct about the goblins, but incorrect about the reason,” Rehgar said. “It dated back to our earliest contact. Goblins and orcs both like it when their food bites back.”

Tonga chuckled, and a moment later, Broll did too, while Valeera grinned. Lion looked between them, uncertain as to the joke. _Is it because they have such big teeth? Like wolves, almost._

“To return to the subject of my people,” Tonga said with a final amused snort, “we do not fully occupy even the southern Barrens. Aside from the oases, which are open to all, this is where the quillboar make their home. It is said that their own patron, the great Agamaggan, died fighting with the demons there, and where his blood spilled sprung up great briars the size of the forests of the Kaldorei.”

“The quillboar tend to be aggressive,” Rehgar added. “Which is something of an understatement, but it’s also something we understand. They like to fight, need it, and will attack southern settlements not out of menace, but for something to do. It’s when you get close to their sacred spaces that they get violent and protective. A few years ago, we nearly lost them to the Scourge.”

“What happened?” Lion asked, eyes wide. The word meant something: Scourge. Undead that ravaged and killed, controlled by a greater force. _I know that name! It wasn’t taken from me. Maybe I can--_ Focusing made his eyes water and his head pound, so he let it go. Broll frowned at him, concerned, and he offered the Kaldorei man a faint smile of reassurance.

“When we first came here, we merely assumed they were hostile and avoided them,” Rehgar said. “The Warchief doesn’t crave battle as those before him did. The quillboar felt hedged out of their own land because no one had asked _them_ what they thought of our being here. One of their leaders, a Crone named Charlga, was contacted by the Scourge. In exchange for power and control of their dead, the Scourge promised to deal with us. We caught wind of it before much could happen, but it made us realize our deficiency.”

“It was not a thing we thought to warn them of,” Tonga admitted. “Since we were nomadic until recently, it never would have occurred to us to expand into their lands. Now there are formal treaties and agreements, as well as people who are assigned to posts that the quillboar will attack so that they are properly guarded, and the quillboar get their fight.”

“It seems to me the quillboar are violent and warlike,” Lion noted. “Why wouldn’t you just kill them? They seem to want to die, and your farmers can’t live peacefully if they have that kind of threat hanging over their heads.” Lion watched as Tonga and Rehgar exchanged long looks. “Can they?”

“When we came to Kalimdor, it was for refuge,” Rehgar said first, breaking the silence, and eye contact, with the tauren druid to turn to Lion. “We were looking for our promised land, a place we could exist without having to resort to bloody conquest. The quillboar, the tauren, this is their home. They live here. We’ve fought against the Kaldorei and the centaur, but they have the right to live here too. So, yes, we could go to war, but there’s been enough of that. We need posted guards, not battle drums.”

“I see,” Lion said, though discomfort still twisted through him. _Why don’t the farmers think that their leaders aren’t protecting them properly? Why not send an army once instead of guards a dozen times? Why leave an enemy at your back?_ “Why do you have a settlement here? If the orcs and the tauren have such different needs, that is.”

“It is as described, a crossroads between territories, be they orc, tauren, or otherwise. Anything that’s grown in the north is brought to the Crossroads, loaded into caravans and brought to Durotar, along the eastern road or further south along the Gold Road to Camp Taurajo.”

“That was how we arrived,” Lion said. “Camp Taurajo?”

“We have several permanent hunting camps where we perform our leathercrafts and train our young to be hunters and warriors. Taurajo is one of them, and additionally serves as an intermediary between the trading caravans and Mulgore.”

Lion glanced at Rehgar, and then back to Tonga. “Why wouldn’t the caravans just go into Mulgore?”

“Mulgore is sacred and pristine,” Tonga replied. “Our people value the orcs as allies, but we prefer not to have others enter without permission. The orcs have agreed and respect our wishes. There are many things that do not happen in Mulgore -- mining, for example, or any kind of excavating.”

“We can visit Thunder Bluff by other means,” Rehgar added. “Commissioned zeppelin or wyvern, if one can afford it, or teleportation, if one knows a mage. We also know that the tauren will always support the Horde, so there’s no need to maintain a presence in Mulgore.”

Lion nodded with what he hoped looked like understanding. _I don’t think I’d want to be kept in the dark about so much,_ he thought. _Why would you keep secrets if you were trustworthy?_ Unease prickled along his arms, and he missed the question Tonga asked. “Sorry?”

“I said, how is it that humans farm?” the druid repeated. “We have spoken much of our farming, and now I’m very curious about what humans do.”

“I’ve forgotten so much,” Lion began. “I may not be able to tell you, depending on who I… was.” Closing his eyes, Lion tried to find something amid the dense cloud in his mind. “We have… cities, and villages that supply the cities. There are villagers that only provide enough for themselves, and others that have great, huge fields so they can harvest crops and sell them to merchants within the city, then the people in the city buy that food. We raise chickens, goats sometimes. Horses, though not usually for meat. Dogs and cats. Sheep… and cows. Sorry.”

“I am not overly offended by the domestication of non-intelligent bovines,” Tonga said, eyes twinkling. “So long as they’re treated reasonably well.”

“I think so?” Lion hesitated. “I don’t know for sure. We fish too, I think.”

“We tend to leave fishing to the Therans,” Rehgar said. “Though we have some fishing boats along our coast. Water isn’t something we’re particularly fond of. What is it that you grow? I only have vague memories of Lordaeron’s fields, mostly from when we were running through them.”

“I’m not certain. Wheat, I believe. Not corn. Vegetables?” Lion frowned. “Fruit, too. Grapes, I think?”

“Is it making your head hurt to remember?” Broll asked, placing a hand on Lion’s forehead. “Be careful.”

“No,” Lion replied. “At least, not any more than usual. I think I just don’t remember much about farming. All of my memories are of cities. White stone, some green forests, but not much else. I’m sorry.”

“Hm, how strange,” Tonga mused, wrinkling his muzzle. “I do not doubt you, but it’s still odd.”

“I think our Lion is a city boy,” Valeera teased. “He probably hasn’t seen any farm animal that’s still got legs on.”

Lion shrugged, uncomfortable. “It’s not up to _me_ to answer every question about humans. Ask the Therans if you want to know so much.”

“It’s not exactly every question to want to know what humans grow in their fields,” Valeera pointed out. “Even I can tell you what elves have, and I used to live in Silvermoon. It’s basic knowledge, unless you live in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, I _don’t_ know, so maybe I _did_ live in the middle of nowhere,” Lion snapped, irritable.

“It still seems like a great deficiency in education,” Tonga mused. “Everyone should know where their meals come from, that they might appreciate those who provide them more.”

Lion opened his mouth, and Rehgar cut in with a gesture. “Let’s not forget our new friend is still unwell. Some fresh air and real clothing, not just rags, will help him more than questions right now.”

“Yes, you’re quite right,” Tonga said, and heaved himself to a standing position. “I have enjoyed speaking to you, Lion. I look forward to seeing you at the evening meal.”

“I-- thank you.” Lion ducked his head awkwardly, winced, and settled back. Tonga nodded to him agreeably, and left the room, letting the leather curtain fall behind him.

“He’s a good sort,” Broll noted. “Knowledgeable and patient. Up you go.”

Lion nodded as Rehgar moved to his other side, and with Broll behind him to assist, slowly sat up. The room remained mostly in place, and the sudden rush of pounding faded into a dull ache. He found his leather sandals on the floor and slipped them on.

“Ready to face the day?” Rehgar asked, and Lion shrugged a little, and let himself be led outdoors.

The Crossroads were busy as people moved from place to place, from market stall to tiny shop. His new friends had not led him astray: indeed, he could see caravans and their crews moving great bundles and crates on and off while great beasts that reminded Lion of lizards past stood patiently, only occasionally scuffing a great, blunt foot against the hard-packed dirt.

Lion could see Bloodeye standing near three stalls, all dedicated to leatherworking. He could not hear the orc’s words over all of the other people talking, but from his posture, and the smiles on his listeners’ -- all women -- faces, Bloodeye was flirting with them, and they happened to like what they heard.

“I’m going to see what Tonga is working on,” Broll said, moving past Lion and heading towards one of the more distant dwellings. “I’ll see you tonight, Lion. Take care.”

“But--” he began, and cut the word off as Rehgar clapped him on the shoulder.

“I must see to our supplies for the journey,” the orc said. “Feel free to go by any stall, they know me here, and I will pay for whatever you need.”

Worry rose in Lion’s throat as he saw the shaman disappear into the crowd of bodies, and he hung back in the doorway of the hut. Valeera took a step out, and Lion reached out, grasping her arm tightly. “Don’t go.”

Valeera’s ears twitched. “We’re not going anywhere, it’s just shopping.”

“I know, it’s just…” Lion looked to her, pleading. “Please, just come with me.”

“I’m not exactly the best fashion consultant,” Valeera noted, indicating the tight, blood red leather she wore under her cloak, and Lion’s grip tightened. “My taste is probably suspect.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Lion insisted. “Come with me, I don’t want to wander alone here.”

Valeera studied his expression, and Lion did his best to look appropriately pathetic. Valeera sighed, and flicked a lock of his hair, untamed and unstymied by any attempts to restrain it. “Don’t hurt yourself. We’ll make poor life choices about clothing together. I’ll stay with you, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Lion said, feelingly. “Rehgar said he’d pay for anything I needed, but I’m not sure where to start.” _I don’t think I went shopping very often either._

“Well,” Valeera said, looking around. “Let’s try over there.” Valeera pointed towards a series of stalls that were so close they seemed to be one endless corridor of fabric. Swallowing, Lion nodded. Valeera adjusted his grip on her arm, so that he was holding onto her instead of clinging, and led him towards it.

Of the six vendors, two were orcs, one man and one woman, selling shirts and trousers made of hemp. The clothing was thick and a little rough, but solidly made. Lion touched over the material as the orcs spoke in their language at length. _I’m sure they’re telling me all about clothes, but I have no idea what they mean. I didn’t realize how fortunate I was that Rehgar and Bloodeye speak my language._

Valeera replied to the orcs, speaking the same language, gesturing first to Lion, then to the clothing. Lion watched as disbelief, then amusement trickled over their features, and they spoke to Valeera rather than himself.

 _Well, so long as one of us understands what’s going on,_ Lion thought, and wandered to the next stall. Here, a tauren was selling leather and beadwork. The woman, her voice low and soothing in her native tongue, was no more comprehensible than the orcs. Lion gestured, trying to convey his lack of comprehension. She nodded and grasped one of his hands in a three-fingered grip, pressing it down onto the leather vest she had on display.

“Soft,” Lion said as his fingers stroked across the material, and then moved to the blue, white, and red beadwork that reminded him of ocean waves. “Pretty.”

“Soft,” the tauren woman repeated, testing the word out. “Pretty.”

“I want it,” Lion said, and motioned with his hands, miming picking up the vest and holding it to his chest. The tauren woman smiled. Then he put his hands to the ragged remains of his pockets. “Is it expensive?”

The tauren woman watched him go through the motions as he repeated them, and considered. She took his hand again, and turned it over, tapping three of his fingers, and then drew a circle on his hand, a large one. Lion shook his head, and she went to a basket and retrieved a coin the same size as the circle, golden and shimmering in the sun. She tapped three of his fingers again, and traced the circle once more.

Lion nodded his understanding. “I will buy it, but only if Rehgar says so. Rehgar, do you know him?”

The tauren woman nodded, seeming to recognize the name, and spoke at length in her own language, the sound soothing. She retrieved a piece of paper, thick and rough, and placed it before him, then a small bottle of ink. Lion blinked at it a moment, and then, dipped his finger in the ink.

[I, Lion, certify that I have purchased one leather vest for three gold coins. Rehgar, please pay the proprietor of this store and this receipt. - L]

The tauren woman blinked at his work, and then chuckled, shrugging. She took the ink and paper away, and returned with a small wetted cloth to wipe Lion’s fingers.

 _...what did she expect me to do?_ Lion wondered. _I definitely remember how to write._ He accepted the vest from her. “Thank you. Very much.”

The tauren woman put a hand over her heart, her mouth, and then the crown of her head, seeming to acknowledge it before Lion moved on. A fourth vendor was a being Lion didn’t recognize, tall and long-limbed the way Broll was, but hunched over, and bald where Broll had long, leaf-green hair. As the being caught Lion’s gaze, they grinned, showing off massive, curved tusks that nearly touched their long, triangular nose, and Lion shied away. The next and last vendor was something Lion _did_ recognize, though he felt uneasy: a goblin.

“Hey bud,” the goblin said, leaning forward on a stool. “Whatcha buyin’?”

“I’m just… looking, for now,” Lion said, relieved to be able to talk normally. “I’m buying clothes.”

“Clothes make the man, let me see what I got for ya,” the goblin said, and spun around, hunting through chests. The goblin’s stall was draped with loud colours, different from the muted browns or sky blues offered by the other races. Gold cloth, bright orange, scarlet, and a startling green that was nothing like anything Lion had seen in nature, purple so deep it was almost black and eye-searing blue.

 _Who would wear such things?_ Lion wondered as he saw gold draped over blue and white, even as some part of him ached. Reaching out, he stroked a finger along a piece of shining cloth and bit back a gasp as he felt how slick it was, sliding over his fingers like--

“Hey, don’t go messin’ up the silks,” the goblin said. “They’re expensive. Like it, eh? Costs a pretty coin or ten. Cotton’s cheaper, but not by a lot. Not much call for it, between the orcs and the tauren, and them trolls don’t appreciate a proper set of duds.” The goblin snapped the suspenders holding up a pair of orange and black striped trousers over an open purple shirt. “See, this here.”

“It’s very… loud,” Lion said, doubtful. “You spoke of cotton?”

“Yeah,” the goblin said and dropped a shirt on top of the others. This one was plain white, large and clearly meant for a muscled individual. The collar was open, with laces on the front. “They grow it all over Elwynn. Crazy, them farms, huge. Between them and the sheep, surprised that there ain’t more fluffy stuff comin’ out of the ears of them Azerothians.”

“Azerothians…” Lion repeated. “Where is this… Azeroth? Have you been there?”

“Azeroth’s part of the southern bit of the Eastern Lands, pretty borin’ name if ya ask me, which ya didn’t.” The goblin shrugged expressively, and rubbed a hand over his bald head. “North’a Stranglethorn, south of everything else. Never been there personal, the Steamwheedle tend to stick to the Vale, plus our islands, and the Port and Ratchet in Kalimdor. We trade with ‘em, and the Tirans through Booty Bay, ships cross to Steamwheedle Port and then head up’ta Theramore, where they’d take on more cargo and trade, then go’ta Ratchet, which is direct east from here. Then they head back, or trade from Theramore ta Kul Tiras, because only them Therans and Tirans are crazed enough to sail by the Maelstrom on the regular.”

Lion’s head hurt, and he wasn’t certain it was entirely because of his condition. “So, where is…”

“Here,” the goblin said. “I’ve got a map.” Lion watched as the goblin hopped from his stool and went looking in the packs that sat, near invisible, under the stall. He brought out a rough piece of paper and opened it up over top of the silks. “We’re here.” The goblin stabbed a stubby finger at the map. He traced his finger along to the coast. “That’s Ratchet.” His finger continued to move down the coastline to an island that seemed almost absurdly small. “That’s Theramore, it’s bigger’n it looks, they expanded into the Marsh, but this map’s kinda old.” Continuing down, he said, “An’ this here is Steamwheedle Port in the Tanaris Desert.”

“There’s a desert… near an ocean?”

“Sure. Takes all kinds.” The goblin shrugged again. “So, these’re the southern islands, Kezan, Tel’Abim, Zandalar. From there, Booty Bay’s here, right on the bottom tip. Azeroth’s in this area here.” The goblin circled an area on the map. “Stormwind’s got a big port, facin’ west. Up the coastline here, past the Dark Iron mountains -- or Blackrock Mountains, dependin’ on who you ask, then it’s Khaz Modan, where the dwarves live. Over here’s Kul Tiras, and as you can see…”

“Is that a gigantic hurricane?” Lion asked, peering. “I remember… hearing of them.”

“That’s the Maelstrom, and yeah, it pretty much is a gigantic hurricane that don’t move. You can see how close it is to Kul Tiras. Some claim you can actually see it from there on a clear day. I’m pretty sure it’s what makes ‘em crazy.”

“Tirans are crazy?” Lion asked, confused.

The goblin grinned. “Crazy enough to be goblin friends. So, any questions?”

“Yes,” Lion said, and pointed. “Why is there a puncture mark in the map? Did someone stab it?”

The goblin rolled his eyes. “Some idiot decided he was going to stab the map with a dagger or somethin’, so it went for cheap. Who stabs a map? They’re expensive.”

“Probably someone who doesn’t have to pay for them,” Lion murmured. “About the shirt…”

“Lion,” Valeera said, elbowing through the crowd. “There you are. I’ve got new clothes for you, they should fit, but you should try them on. We have to get you measured for boots, they probably don’t have anything in your size, and you can’t go walking around forever in sandals.” She blinked. “Is that Azerothian silk?”

“Finest!” the goblin beamed. “Buyin’ anything?”

“No, I’m not carrying silk all over Kalimdor’s half-acre,” Valeera said. “Lion, this will cost six times more than the clothes I already bought you, for _one_ shirt, and Rehgar is paying for it. Leave it, and come with me.”

“...but this is from human lands,” Lion protested. “This is what humans wear.”

“Elves too, but silk isn’t meant for travel, and we wouldn’t be able to keep cotton clean.” Valeera glared at the goblin. “What kind of a salesman are you?” she demanded. “Does he look like he has money?”

“Hey, people have hidden depths, lady,” the goblin said. The map disappeared and the shirt immediately after. “Get outta here if you’re not buyin’ anything.”

“Oh, we will,” Valeera said, gripping Lion’s elbow and steering him away. Lion winced, and she lessened her grip. “Try not to wander off. You never know who you’ll meet.”

“I bought a vest,” Lion said, and Valeera blinked. He held it up. “I owe…” He looked around. “That woman, there. Three gold. I signed a contract.”

“Odd, they don’t usually do contracts, just verbal agreements,” Valeera said. “Not that you should break any agreement you’ve made with them; the tauren are so mild tempered you forget that they have hooves that can stomp you into paste if they so choose. At least it’s a good vest.”

“At least,” Lion agreed. “Do you think Rehgar will be angry with me for buying it? Especially if it’s expensive.”

“Rehgar? No, I doubt that, and it will make some of these shirts look nicer. They’re, well, they’re plain and serviceable, but they’re also sold to farmers.” Valeera indicated for Liion to follow her. “We’re getting you boots.”

“If it’s hot here, wouldn’t it be better to keep the sandals?” Lion asked, though he followed readily. “It would surely be cheaper to just buy socks, that would keep my toes clean--”

“No,” Valeera replied. “No. Aside from everything else, those sandals will destroy your feet if you have to do any amount of walking, and we might, if the caravan breaks down or we have to go looking for water. You’ll wind up with blisters and cuts, and it will leave your feet exposed.”

“Exposed to what?” Lion asked, a trickle of apprehension going down his spine. “Everyone seems healthy enough.”

“Snake bites, or spiders,” Valeera said promptly. “Thorny underbrush. Any threshed fields will have stalks with sharpened points that can push right through weak-soled shoes if you aren’t careful. It wasn’t so long ago that there were conflicts in this area, so any shards of metal or glass.”

“...but we’ll be on the wagon--”

“Unless something goes wrong,” Valeera pointed out. “And something always goes wrong. You don’t want to have to hold people back or make them carry you. We’ll do it if you’re sick or hurt, but not if you could have prevented it with proper footwear.”

“I see,” Lion said, and peered down at his feet, pale but dusted with red. “Then I should probably still get socks. He looked back up and over at Valeera. “If it’s so dangerous here, is that why you wear so much leather?”

“No,” Valeera replied as she headed towards a low building. “I wear it because I make it look good.”

“No lie there,” Lion remarked, and then blushed. “I mean--”

Valeera patted his arm, and then held it, steering him inside. Unlike the stalls, which were clearly meant for selling finished goods, this was a place where things were created, or more specifically, boots and shoes. Lion looked around, blinking at the sight of dozens of foot molds of various sizes. Some had loops of leather fixed around them, dark or light, while others were showing off hardened wooden soles at different thicknesses and sizes. There were also tools, hammers and blades and other things Lion didn’t recognize. He stared in wonder as Valeera approached one of the three orcs busily working.

Valeera spoke in orcish, and Lion listened with only half an ear as he wandered around, examining the models. A few of the models didn’t look like feet at all, instead the hoof and ankle of some large creature.

 _This must be for the tauren,_ Lion thought. _They don’t wear shoes but they still would want the protection. They’re not immune to snake bites._

“Lion, come here,” Valeera said. “Bragg and Thock are going to measure you for boots. They’re not sure about socks, but they’ve promised to leave a bit of give, so you can wear them. We’ll need to stop by the market again to make sure. It's hard to find socks because people here don't usually wear them.”

“Do orcs not get blisters?” Lion asked, and sat where indicated, slipping his sandals off and toeing them to the side. The larger of the two orcs knelt down, barking orders at the smaller one to hand him knotted cords, wrapping them around Lion’s foot with efficiency and calling out what he presumed were numbers. “Why wouldn’t they wear socks?”

Valeera conveyed the question, and one of the orcs indicated himself, and showed off his fingers: they were large, rough and callused, and the nails were hardened, blunt, and coal black. Lion examined the green-brown of his skin, and the toughness of his palms. The orc pointed to his feet, and held out both hands. He indicated for Lion to do the same.

Lion held out his hands and saw that in many ways they matched. He wasn’t quite as large as the orc, but he was close. The orc pointed to his fingernails, that were short and ragged in places, and then to his toes, exposed to the air. He indicated his own booted feet, and then Lion’s, and held a finger out a slightly further distance from his feet.

“He’s saying… they have longer toenails… and sharper ones?” Lion guessed. Valeera passed this on to the orc, who nodded, grinned with teeth that seemed almost as long as his fingers, and clapped Lion on the back, hard. “Why not just cut them?”

“They’re very tough,” Valeera said. “And only crafters and farmers cut their nails regularly… or I suppose, wear them down. Warriors and others who don’t work with their hands have longer nails. Not bad for scratching. I’ll admit, I haven’t had a manicure in years. They’re inconvenient for camping.”

“I’d imagine so,” Lion murmured. “And it would be harder to rescue gentlemen in distress with thumb-length nails.”


	4. Late Spring, Year 29

Without the distraction of nail care, the orcs went back to work. Through Valeera, Lion understood that while they’d work as quickly as they could, he would get his boots no earlier than tomorrow before the caravan departed for the southern Barrens. He slipped his feet back into sandals and let Valeera lead him out again, into the street.

“We’ll have to go by that goblin for socks,” Valeera said, hand on Lion’s elbow. “It will be a little expensive, but we’ll manage. Blisters should be avoided as much as possible. Breaking in your new boots will be bad enough.”

Lion winced. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting gently used boots, pre-softened?”

“At your size? I’m afraid not.” Valeera led him back to the goblin, and engaged in rapid-fire negotiation with the small, green humanoid.

 _I’m fairly certain that’s all in Common, but I don’t understand more than one word in three,_ Lion thought, frustrated and a little admiring. _I’m not sure how she’s doing it, other than that she must be used to it by now. I’m lucky that she’s here to manage it, otherwise I’d come away ten gold lighter and only up one sock._

There was something familiar about it, something familiar and lonely that made his head ache. _I’m not good at it. It goes past me and beyond me. Someone I knew did this for me and kept me out of trouble, out of debt…_ The ache pressed deeper, between his eyes, and sharpened like a dagger, plunging into his mind with stabbing pain. Lion staggered, casting around desperately for something to steady him.

As he searched, his gaze fell on a trio of burly, sweating orcs, all liberally streaked with soot and grime. At only mid-afternoon, they bore signs of hard work since dawn, and in their arms they carried blades: square-headed axes that gleamed in daylight, narrow spears, balanced for throwing, and…

“Swords,” Lion breathed. The memories here were less painful, though still vague. Patient hands, gentle voices that rose to military cadence. _Practice,_ the voice -- _her_ \-- voice urged. _Practice every day. Even if you never have to fight, it builds discipline._

“Swords, is it?” Valeera asked, and Lion jerked around, startled. The elven woman had a bag in one hand, and rested the other on her hip under her cloak. “Sorry. Did you remember something?”

“Not exactly, except…” Lion gestured. “Swords. I remember being told to practice.”

“So you can defeat the next crocolisk you come across?” Valeera asked, teasing, and took his elbow once more. “We should get you one. Though, I don’t know that those would be much good.” She indicated the orcs. “They’re forged with orcs and tauren in mind. Even the trolls make their own weapons.”

“It’s too much,” Lion whispered. “I’ll never be able to pay this much back. I’ll have to sell myself like Bloodeye.” The pain returned, sharper than ever, stabbing behind both eyes now. He pressed his palms to his temples, felt his blood pound in his ears and squeezed harder, trying to relieve the pain.

“Lion,” Valeera said softly. “Lion, stop. We’re happy to help you. We don’t need you to pay us back. It’s a… a duty to take care of those that can’t take care of themselves. You aren’t well, you need… you need to relax.”

“I don’t remember things. I don’t remember enough.” Lion’s voice shook with emotion. “I need to remember and I can’t.”

“Not right now,” Valeera urged. She shifted the burdens in her arms and reached up, resting cool fingers over Lion’s hands, and tugged gently. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Let it go.”

Lion stared at her in confusion, though the aching dulled a fraction. “Of course I do. I… people need me to know. _I_ need to know.”

“You will know, in time,” Valeera said. “For now, all it’s doing is hurting you. Let it _go_. Finish shopping with me. We’ll get you cleaned up and by the time you’re decent, it will be time to eat. You’ll have a belly full of food and a spotless ass.”

Lion felt his cheeks heat. “...am I that dirty?”

“Well, you’re not clean,” Valeera said. “Come on.”

A smile tugged at Lion’s mouth, and he nodded. “Yes, mistress.”

“Oh no,” Valeera said, taking his arm. “Not that I don’t like you, but you actually would owe me something if you’re going to start using that kind of language.”

Lion’s flush returned. “That’s not how I meant it.”

Valeera winked at him. “I know.”

 _At this rate,_ Lion thought as she led him along, _I’ll be so red in the face that you won’t be able to distinguish me from the dust in Durotar._

~ * ~

Sunset found Lion just outside a huge building, inhaling the mixed scents of roast meat and baking bread. Valeera’s help and generosity found him in the cotton shirt the goblin had tried and failed to sell him and his leather vest, along with a pair of hempen trousers, the drawstring pulled tight to keep them from slipping from his hips and exposing linen smallclothes. His new socks were carefully bundled away, awaiting the morning and his new boots, and instead he wore his borrowed sandals.

“You’re allowed to go in, you know,” murmured Broll from behind him..“We’re all invited.”

Lion turned and looked up at him, smiling. “I know. I was waiting for one of the caravan to arrive, so I’d know where to sit.”

“In my experience? Wherever you can find some elbow space,” Broll said. He looked Lion over, nodding once. “I see you managed to find something to wear.”

“With Valeera’s help, yes,” Lion replied. “I very much needed it. I hadn’t realized I don’t speak the… language here.”

“Languages,” Broll corrected. “Many of the orcish dialects have been lost, but there are a half-dozen tauren ones, depending on the broader clan grouping. The goblins have their own language, of course, but only one. There are more troll languages, but only one here. We all learned the common human tongue at one time or another, so that’s fortunate.”

Lion felt dizzy. “I think I speak more than one language, but none of the ones here. I’m glad I didn’t try to negotiate on my own. Or at least, mostly. I did buy this vest.”

“It’s a very nice vest,” Broll reassured him. “Let’s go inside.”

Inside was not precisely loud, but certainly filled with sound and people as well as delicious scents that made his mouth water. A small entrance way led to a great room dominated by two huge tables, each nearly the full length of the room and so wide they only just fit. Lion saw the merchants who had sold him -- or more accurately, Valeera -- clothes, and others he didn’t recognize. Big, broad-shouldered orcs and slender ones. A handful of goblins, some tinier and louder than the one he’d met, clustered around one corner, sitting on crates to see properly over the table. Dozens of tauren, their heads bent in soft conversation that rumbled across the room. Valeera was easy to find amongst so many hues of brown, green, blue, and grey, and Lion squirmed his way past a trio of female trolls chattering excitedly.

“Thank you again,” Lion said as he squeezed onto the bench. The trolls, as one, glanced over at him, let loose a cackling laugh, and scooted further down the bench. Lion’s cheeks heated. “I wonder what that was about?”

“I wouldn’t be concerned, not here,” Valeera said, and her smile was small and thin, but present. “Don’t let it ruin your appetite, because that would be a tragedy of epic proportions.”

“I’m not concerned, just curious.”

“I suspect,” Broll said, sitting down next to him, the troll women scooting a little further down with less commentary, “that they find your appearance unusual. We don’t usually see humans in this part of Kalimdor unless there’s trouble, and if they do appear, they’re usually armed.”

“Aren’t they… we… _you_ allied with humans? The Therans?” Lion asked. “Wouldn’t they have gotten used to them by now?”

“The Therans have Northwatch Keep nearby, which hasn't always been a good thing. In theory, they use their navy to protect our coast and stop any future misunderstandings from occurring. In practice, not every person was completely content with the idea of defending orcs from fellow humans. There have been incidents, but it’s been cleared up now. We hope.”

“Things are… complicated here,” Lion murmured. His temples throbbed once, and then settled as fresh scents wafted towards him. “What… is that?”

“That,” Rehgar said from across the table, “is dinner.”

Lion looked up and saw several large, tauren men and women carrying equally large wooden platters, and several orcs behind them carrying stacks of wooden containers. One platter was set down per group of five or six, and two of the smaller containers, one to each side of the platter.

Lion peered at the contents, curious and a little confused. The platter itself was large, and had a dozen grooves sanded into it, like a multitude of shallow bowls, each heaped with some kind of paste. There were browns and greens, reds and golds. There was meat, definitely, and vegetables, and other things Lion couldn’t quite identify. Lifting the lid of one of the smaller containers, he blinked.

“You look confused,” Broll noted, amusement rolling across his tongue and tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What troubles you?”

“Is this… bread?” Lion asked. “It’s so flat.”

“Flat bread is flat,” Bloodeye snorted, and retrieved a piece. “Surely they have bread in whatever over-civilized heap you crawled out of.”

“Rude,” Valeera commented, and retrieved her own piece of bread. “Especially for someone who was only introduced to bread a few years ago.”

Bloodeye rolled his eyes, and declined to comment. Lion copied them, taking the flat circle into his hand. He squeezed it a little, gently. “It’s… firm. Firmer than I was expecting. I remember bread being differently shaped, soft and white.”

“Loaves,” Valeera said. “You remember loaves of bread. Not surprising. Fairly common for humans. Take a nibble.”

Lion lifted the bread to his mouth and bit off a small piece, chewing and swallowing. “It’s good. Chewy. Not soft, but firm. I like it.”

“Good, good.” Rehgar smiled at him from across the table. “Now, before you eat more, you’ll need to wait.” Fast as a snake, he slapped the back of Bloodeye’s hand as it crept towards the platter. “You know the rules.”

Bloodeye muttered, annoyed, but let his hand rest on the table. At the far end, Sergra stood with Tonga, and waited patiently for the food to be served out, and those carrying it to return to the kitchens.

“Friends,” Sergra said, and Rehgar translated. “Another day has come and gone, and here we are, still strong of arm and stout of heart. Together, we harvest, we fight, we hunt, we work. Together, we eat of our fields and the fruits of our labour. Together, we praise the spirits for these gifts.”

“Family,” Tonga continued. "We are all family here. Brothers and sisters. Mothers and fathers. Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Here, in this place, we are all the children of the Earthmother. She grants us her gifts, the grains of her fur, the meat of her flesh, the drink of her tears, the fire of her heart. As she has shared of herself with us, so too do we share with one another. Together, we eat as family."

In unison, they spoke, "Sit, eat, be welcome, in the name of the spirits and the Earthmother."

Those seated spoke in orcish, and Rehgar translated after speaking himself, "we give thanks to the spirits, the Earthmother, and each other."

Lion repeated words that were swallowed by the din of people rising to serve themselves. He sat back, watching the others at the table. Bloodeye, across from him, eagerly retrieved a piece of flatbread and tore it into large pieces. As Lion watched, the orc leaned forward, scooping one of the pastes onto it and crammed it in his mouth, hardly chewing.

"What... is that?" Lion asked, curious. "I take it you've eaten it before."

"Something like it," Bloodeye said. "It's meat. Gazelle, by my reckoning. Seasoned with herbs, ground up fine, into this paste. It doesn't make good chewing, but I'm not going to turn down free food."

"This is how tauren prefer to eat their food," Rehgar said, giving Bloodeye a look as he helped himself. "Their teeth are large, but flat, and they prefer their food--"

"Pre-chewed," Bloodeye mumbled. Rehgar's expression darkened.

"Softer. We'll manage, and you should be fine." He gestured over the platter. "The brown and red are meat. Gazelle, some pork, some rabbit. Some game birds. The pale tan is cracked wheat, ground and mixed with some oil. These ones are bean-paste, of several kind, green, yellow, and brown. Tomato, it's a kind of berry, is this red one here. Carrots, potatoes, squash. Corn."

"That doesn't look ground up," Lion noted. "Those bits are huge."

"They're kernels," Broll said. "Corn is bigger when it's at home."

"I see." Tentatively, Lion ripped a section from his own piece of flatbread, and set it in two fingers. Gently, he scooped up the corn, and drew it carefully back to his mouth, then took a bite. "Oh!"

"Oh?" Rehgar asked, and used one small piece to scoop various pastes onto one great piece of bread. "How is it?"

"It's... a bit sweet," Lion said, swallowing carefully. "And crisp. Quite crisp."

"Corn is delicious." Rehgar smiled broadly. "Go ahead, we're to share this."

“It does seem very good,” Lion said, and tore another piece of bread free. Already, most of the meat was missing as Bloodeye and Broll both dug into it enthusiastically. “...though it seems like a very light meal.”

“Well, people are asked not to be greedy,” Rehgar said, giving both of them reproving looks. “But once we finish this, we’ll be served more until we’re finished. The pastes are made in great batches and distributed over the course of the meal.”

Something tugged at Lion’s memory, and he frowned. “When do they eat? The servers, I mean.”

“Before the meal,” Rehgar said, reassuring. “They eat first so they can make sure everything is as it should be, but also so they don’t go hungry over the course of the long meal. Some of those eating now will clear the table when we’re done and do the cleaning. We’re not providing anything this time, or at least, not directly, but caravans transporting food or other supplies often find themselves invited to the evening’s meal. People are well fed here.”

“So it seems,” Lion said, and returned to the task of eating. Some of the things he ate tasted familiar, teasing his tastebuds, while other flavours seemed entirely foreign. As promised, nothing was heavily spiced, but the scent and taste of redolent herbs made up for it, adding strength or sharpness to the individual flavours. He took small pieces of flatbread, trying everything, and watching over his companions.

Bloodeye used bigger pieces and all but attacked the meat, while Rehgar mixed flavours onto the bread, rolled it, and ate the bread in great bites. Broll sampled, here and there, half-distracted by trio of trolls that sat next to him, chatting and gesturing with the bread in his hands, and licking paste from his lips and teeth with almost alarming frequency. Valeera ate mechanically, watching the people around her and the door.

It hardly seemed like Reghar had wiped the last of the pastes out of one tray when the next was brought, leaving no question that even the most gluttonous would get their fair share. When the trays stopped coming, and the other diners waited with anticipation, Lion turned to Rehgar again.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “They all know something.”

“Indeed,” Rehgar said, and tapped the side of his stomach with his fist before he let loose a redolent belch. “Your pardon. Our hosts are most generous, and this is the part of the meal we orcs particularly enjoy, and I hope that you will too.”

“Oh?” Lion said, his nerves prickling with anticipation. “What would that be?”

“Dessert!” Bloodeye roared. “Spoils for the might of the-- ow!”

“Dessert,” Rehgar said calmly. “Pastry was unheard of, and fruit was very rare. We appreciate this gift.”

“We do indeed,” Broll said, smiling broadly. “It may not be the most familiar to you, but trust me, it tastes good.”

“I hope so, I--” Lion looked to his companions, and found three rather than four. “Where did Valeera go?”

“She slipped out earlier,” Broll noted. “She isn’t fond of crowded spaces. For all she likes to tease me about living in the woods, she’s something of a loner.”

Lion opened his mouth to reply, and was cut off by the sound of excitement as new trays were brought out, and he took in the heady scent of apple, mixed with cinnamon and freshly baked pastry. The items spoke to something deep inside, something he knew was familiar: fruit jam and sweetbread, and apple pastries.

 _Valeera’s going to miss it if she doesn’t come back…_ he thought, and discomfort twisted inside, around the meal he’d consumed. Quickly, before the servers could remove the leftover flatbread, Lion took two, and then from the trays took two of the apple pastries, wrapping them in the bread to protect his hands.

“Lion?” Rehgar called as he stood, and wound his way around the table towards the exit. “Where are you going?”

“Outside,” Lion said briefly. “I don’t think I’m much for crowds either.”

The sun had gone down by the time Lion stepped out of the dining hall, and the Crossroads were quiet. All the noise was contained inside the building he’d left, and the night air was cool and more comfortable than the full heat of day. A handful of guards stood watch in the towers at the corners of the settlement, nibbling their pastries one-handed while they held weapons in the other.

“Excuse me,” Lion called out, and realized a moment afterwards the guards might not understand him. An orc -- a woman, if Lion was interpreting the way shadows hugged curves -- looked down at him. “I’m looking for a friend.” He gestured. “She’s so tall, dressed in red and a cape… pointed ears?” He brought his fingers up to his own ears, and demonstrated, pointing them up and back.

The orcs said something, and pointed out, away from the settlement and towards the coast. Then she said a few more things, and gestured.

“Thank you,” Lion replied, and hurried, following the path indicated by the line of her finger and arm. The dirt road was mostly patched, but he still watched the ground as twin moons, silver- or blue-white, illuminated his way.

Valeera stood on a low hill, one arm wrapped around her waist, and her other hand cupped close to her mouth. Lion stumbled, and she half-turned, dropping her hand and tucking her arm behind her cape. “Lion. Something wrong?”

“No,” he began. “Well, perhaps. Are you alright? You ran off before dessert, and I brought you--”

“Apple pastries.” Valeera’s lips curved slightly, smiling. “Thank you. I usually skip dessert. Reminds me of home too much. We elves love our fruit.”

“I didn’t think you should miss out,” Lion explained. “Am I bothering you?”

“No, not at all… here. I have an idea.” Valeera unfastened her cape and pulled it from her shoulders. She placed the cape on the ground and gestured him over, sitting down on one side and patting the other. Lion moved to sit next to her, then handed her one of the bread-wrapped pastries. “That’s clever. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lion replied. “Broll said you don’t like it when things are close.”

“He’s not wrong.” Valeera carefully unwrapped her pastry and nibbled at it. “They love their collective meals and their sharing, but sometimes it’s nice to sit where it’s quiet. Where you can hear yourself think. It’s a lot of people to deal with.”

“I understand,” Lion said, and copied her. “I don’t… feel like I ate with so many people before, whoever I was.”

“Whoever you are,” Valeera agreed. “It’s not as if they do any harm, it’s simply… close, and loud.”

“Yes,” Lion said. “What do you intend to do now? Dinner won’t last much longer. Not with the way everyone was eating.”

“Well, it’s a nice night,” Valeera said. “I was thinking that I’d stay out here a while longer, watch the stars come out. They’re nice here.”

“May I join you?” Lion asked. Valeera smiled over at him.

“I think you already have,” she said. Lion smiled back, and then returned to his pastry, and a silence filled with thrumming insects and the soft animal calls of the Barrens.

~ * ~

Morning found Lion naturally, without nightmares. Instead, he could hear a second person breathing, slow and easy, and he turned towards the sound. Blonde hair, spread out over a pale cheek, moved softly with each exhalation, and he smiled.

 _Thank you,_ Lion thought as he looked Valeera over. _Thank you for not leaving me alone._

“You’re welcome,” Valeera murmured, and her eyes opened, green and hazy with sleep. “Also, you think very loudly.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Lion said. “But I do mean it, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Valeera said, her voice soft. “Though it’s as much to my own benefit as it is yours… no nightmares mean no good-hearted gathering at your bedside while we mop your fevered brow and wait for you to wake up.”

Lion felt his cheeks heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a fuss.”

“It’s not your fault, but I wonder about what causes them.” Valeera untangled an arm from the blankets and reached up, tracing over his forehead, the sleeve of her sleeping shirt flopping over her forearm. “I wonder about how they relate to your memory loss.”

“I wish I knew. I wish…” Lion closed his eyes and sighed, then made a second noise as Valeera cupped his cheek. “I wish I knew their names.”

“The woman and the baby,” Valeera said, and stroked along his jaw. “Your wife and child.”

“That must be who they are,” Lion said, frustration filling him, and his head throbbed. “It hurts to think about it.”

“A good way to avoid pain, then,” the elven woman observed. “If you pick up something that’s too hot to hold, you won’t examine it for very long, or very thoroughly. You’ll want to drop it.”

“...and yet, if I hold onto it, I’ll get burned.”

“Or you’ll get used to it.” Valeera shifted in bed, pressing a kiss against his temple, and cloth -- a too-loose shirt and trousers -- brushed over mostly bare flesh, save for smallclothes. “Though I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. Not a lot of people truly enjoy pain.”

“I’m definitely not one of them.” Lion sighed again. “We should get going, we need to pick up the rest of my things, and… you likely want to go.”

“You needed a presence of comfort and there’s no reason to be ashamed of that. Not for me, and not for you. More than that wouldn’t be… ethical, since you can’t remember who you are, but comfort is always the right thing to do. You didn’t do anything untoward, and neither did I.”

“I’ve never thought nearly being eaten would be lucky, but now I find myself feeling that way,” Lion confessed, opening his eyes again and smiling. “Because I met you, and the others.”

“You did, and you had the chance to meet Broll and his spectacular abs.” Lion flushed, embarrassed, while Valeera took the opportunity to roll out of bed. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of either, by the way. No harm in looking.”

“I know _that_ , I just assumed I was less… obvious than that.” Lion waited in bed, letting Valeera dress herself while he kept his eyes averted. “Clearly not.”

“Despite your memory issues, you’re terrible at hiding your emotions,” Valeera noted. “You might as well be naked.”

Lion’s cheeks heated. “I’m not exactly wearing much now.”

“Ah, but soon you will be, and you’ll still have those sad, puppy eyes.” Valeera reached over, ruffling his unruly hair. “I’ll go, you get dressed. We can meet for breakfast at the dining hall. Fortunately, it’s significantly less busy, but also less fancy.”

Lion made a face. “I do not.” Valeera laughed, and left, tugging her hood up over her hair and ears. _Well, I_ don’t _._ Sighing, Lion unwound the sheets from around him, and slid out of bed. His hair, long, brown, and unruly -- though clean -- hung around his shoulders and he ran his fingers through it. _I’ll have to have someone show me how to braid my hair as the orcs do. It’ll be too much to manage otherwise._

Before dinner during the previous evening, Lion had gone through the purchases Valeera had helped him with. Three pairs of canvas trousers -- one for wearing, one for washing, one for repair, she had said -- and a week’s worth of shirts. The vest, of course, the smallclothes, and the socks. The old sandals, and the new boots.

 _I feel like this is more than I deserve. More than I merit. If I asked one of the people at dinner, what would they have said?_ Uncertainty prickled across Lion’s shoulders. _Should I accept this?_ As before, he felt panic well up inside him, pain and distress wrapped around the idea. _She said not to worry,_ he told his churning stomach. _She said it was duty._ His head throbbed once, and then faded. He forced himself not to think of anything but dressing, pulling one leg of his trousers on and then the other, tying them with the drawstring, and pulling on one of the shirts. After a moment, he folded the vest and put it aside. He folded clothes before packing them into the travel pouches Valeera had also provided. Once his pack was filled, he slipped his feet into his sandals and slung his pack over one shoulder. Giving the room a once-over, Lion picked up his socks, and tucked them into a pocket.

Having a room, however small, to himself in the Crossroads Inn was another luxury, and Lion wished he had something to give them in thanks. _I’ll have to ask Rehgar. I’m certain he’d know._ He departed his room, and waved to the watchful Inn matron, who nodded back, and then returned to keeping a watchful eye on the other patrons of the Inn, some going about their daily business, others merely snoozing in chairs, having slept there instead of going to their rooms, assuming they stayed in the Inn at all.

Lion made his way outside, and shielded his face against the morning sun. Already it was bright, the sky clear and blue. Many had already started to work, setting up stalls or unloading wagons that had arrived late at night. Others were gently herding -- though, since some of them were tauren, perhaps herding was rude -- groups of small children towards an outdoor seating area just outside the settlement. Already, the children were chattering questions in their native tongues at their teachers, and Lion couldn’t help but smile sadly.

 _It’s so normal here,_ he thought as he made his way to the shoemaker’s shop. _It’s so completely ordinary. They don’t look like me, or speak my language half the time, but they’re just as ordinary as anyone from--_ He flinched away from the name, and focused on the feeling. It was warm, deep in his chest. It felt good, so long as he didn’t try to seek more. _I wonder how long I can live like this?_

The morose thought sunk into him like a stone: Valeera had advised him not to grip at that which was too hot to touch, but how long could he live without exploring his own mind? How long could he exist without being willing to explore his own limits? Either he could reach into the flames to take what lay within or be suffocated by the smoke and char.

A voice barked to him, and Lion startled from his thoughts, and waved slightly as he hurried across to the tannery, out of the foot traffic he was holding up. _Maybe if I find out who I really am, I’ll stop day-dreaming all the time!_

Lion ducked inside the building, and was greeted by the same orcs from the previous day, their voices deep, their language as incomprehensible as before, but they beckoned to him with strong green hands, and gave him encouraging, toothy grins. He glanced around before sitting down as they urged, and the orcs produced the commissioned boots. Lion took the socks from his pocket and put them on while the orcs fitted his feet into them.

“They’re good,” Lion said, encouraging, while the younger of the orcs still tugged and tested the leather. _Valeera was supposed to be meeting me here, I wonder where she went,_ he thought. _I know they’ve been paid, but I’d like to thank them. They can’t work on many humans._

The boots themselves were brown, with thick, soft soles meant to walk in dirt rather than hardened ones to walk on stone. Cobbled roads didn’t exist here that Lion had seen, so that only made sense. They had laces, and went up to nearly his knee, something the younger orc seemed to be exclaiming over.

“It’s not as if you’re even that short,” Valeera remarked as she slipped inside. “Not from my perspective, at any rate. Sorry, Lion, I had to go pick something up.”

“Valeera,” Lion said, relieved. “Can you tell them how much I appreciate what they’ve done?’

“I will, but we should start teaching you how to speak for yourself, especially if you’re going to be here in the Barrens.” The elven woman spoke to the orc briefly before adding, “he wants you to stand up and walk around a bit. To test the fit.”

Lion nodded, and stood, walking around carefully. The boots felt good, snug without being tight, and right in ways that sandals did not. He smiled, and nodded. “These are good. Thank you.” He turned to the orc. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Valeera translated. “Now that you aren’t a trouserless, shoeless vagrant--” Here, Lion flushed. “--I feel entirely confident giving you this.” From under her cloak, Valeera drew a wrapped package, long and slender in her hands, and she presented it. “Go ahead, but don’t start swinging indoors.”

Lion’s expression twisted into confusion, but took it, and unwrapped the rough cloth from around the narrow length. “This… this is...” Glinting in the light of the tannery was one of the swords they’d seen the day before, sheathed in simple, worked leather. He drew the blade part of the way out, and the orcs made noises of what he assumed was approval. “I can’t accept this.”

“You couldn’t accept any of the other things, but you did anyway, so take this. This isn’t charity. It’s a gift, from me to you. It might help you remember, or it might not. What matters most is that you need some way to defend yourself that doesn’t involve one of us stepping in. If you can do it with a sword, you should. If you’d had a taste for bows, or for screaming and hiding behind shields, we’d have found something for that too.” Valeera’s gaze was intense and bright. “ _Take_ it. Trust me, it’s just no good to feel helpless.”

“I… thank you.” Lion’s throat caught on the words, almost choking as warmth welled in his chest. “You’ll have to teach me, or remind me.”

“Of course I will, we _all_ will.” Valeera smiled up at him. “But not if we take so long that we can’t keep to Rehgar’s busy schedule.”

“What is Rehgar’s busy schedule?” Lion asked as Valeera turned nodding to the orcs and led the way back outside. “He didn’t tell me.”

“That’s the trick,” Valeera said, stepping between two tauren. “He doesn’t tell anyone. He claims the spirits inform him of when he needs to go and where, but I think it’s because he’s terribly disorganized.”

Lion stared at her briefly, then laughed. “Here I thought he was wise and all-knowing.”

“No one’s _completely_ wise and all-knowing,” Valeera said, hooking her hand around the crook of his elbow as they walked towards their caravan, where the orc shaman was busy tending to their animals. “No matter how much they might like to pretend otherwise. Especially not shamans.”

“I heard that,” Rehgar commented, murmuring to the kodos. “I’ll have you know that I consult the spirits every morning as I wake, instead of laying about like two certain someones.”

“Why, we were up as swift as the sun rises,” Valeera said, and nodded to Lion. “Go store your things, but keep your blade at hand. We’ll practice when we take breaks.”

Lion nodded back, and hurried around to the other side of the caravan, where Bloodeye was securing the last of his supplies. The gladiator-to-be gave him a once-over, and simply grunted out, “Nice boots” before taking his pack and securing it with the rest. Lion clambered inside, finding one of the benches, and tucking his new sword underneath. Rehgar and Valeera’s voices filtered through the canvas awning of the caravan, giving Lion only hints of their conversation.

 _Is that… he’s probably asking what we_ did _in bed,_ Lion thought, and flushed. _I hope she tells him it was nothing inappropriate. I just… didn’t want to be alone._

“All set,” Bloodeye grunted. “Don’t know what you’re going to do without me doing the hard work, between you and the elves.”

“I’ll be able to do my fair share, now that I have boots,” Lion insisted. “This is the absolutely last time.”

“Is that so?” Bloodeye said, and hauled himself into the caravan. Already, his dark green skin was beaded with sweat, and Lion could smell him from the back end of the caravan where he sat, arranging himself amongst their supplies. “Well, I think--”

“No one gives a good goddamn what you think,” muttered Broll as he stomped through the dirt, rubbing at his silver eyes with one hand. “So don’t share.”

 _Is there to be a disagreement, here and now?_ Lion wondered, shifting with worry. _Bloodeye isn’t exactly friendly, and if_ Broll _of all people is annoyed with him--_

Bloodeye laughed, and offered a hand, pulling the night elf into the caravan and steering him to a middling location. “Oi, Rehgar! We’re all in!” He busied himself with closing up the back end of the caravan while Rehgar clucked to the kodos and, with a lurch, the caravan started forward.

“Is… something wrong?” Lion asked, sidling next to Broll. “Did he say something? Did I?”

“Hm?” Broll asked, and yawned. “Oh, no. Not at all. I’m not called a ‘night’ elf for nothing, my friend. I hate mornings.”

Lion peered at him for a moment, trying to determine if the druid was funning him. When Broll smiled, he laughed, and then turned to watch the Crossroads from the back opening as its residents continued to go about their day.


	5. Late Spring, Year 29

The Southern Gold Road was aptly named, as far as Lion was concerned. Sitting next to Rehgar as he drove their team along the cut path, he could see nothing but golden grasses as far as the eye could see, waving gently in the warm wind. Great creatures strode across the plains, some with hugely long legs and necks. Lion watched as they nibbled at the tops of trees, pulling leaves from them with their tongues. Massive, bulky lizards with spikes at the ends of their tails and a double-row of plates along their backs grazed lower, chewing the tops of the grasses and swallowing, sometimes revealing smaller creatures as they fled.

“Giraffes,” Rehgar explained. “And thunderlizards. No relation to the kodo, and unsuitable for draft animals. Difficult to hunt, too. They see a great many more of them in Durotar, though no giraffes. The land is quite different there.”

“I remember,” Lion said, and Rehgar chuckled. “It’s beautiful out here, though. Not exactly wild but… untamed.”

“There are few settlements here, compared to how vast the land is,” Rehgar agreed, clucking to the kodos. “We’ll see the quillboar in the next few days, and within a week’s travel, we’ll see the great settlements of the Razorfen. We’ll need to remain on the road at all times when we pass, but they’re reasonably tolerant of camping until then. There are places along the road where everyone stops, and there are unofficial camp grounds there. We may stop in at Camp Taurajo as well, but we do need to keep time. Bloodeye’s window of opportunity shrinks the longer we take.”

“...and you had to make stops for me,” Lion said, feeling suddenly guilty. “I--”

“Do not apologize,” Rehgar warned. “As a people, we rarely directly apologize, and we find it bizarre as human traits go. It’s not as if you snapped one of our axles, you were under attack! We moved to help.”

Lion bit down on another apology. “I don’t know much about orcs. Or much about anything, I suspect.”

“Ah, it’s your memory,” Rehgar reassured him. “Once it returns, or you build new ones, you’ll be as wise as any of us. Hopefully, wiser than Bloodeye.”

“I _heard_ that,” Bloodeye growled from the caravan as Valeera’s laughter filtered through the shelter. “Ass.”

Rehgar chuckled again. “We all make mistakes. Words are often hollow, aside from a good rousing speech or three, but deeds? Deeds matter a great deal. Our deeds were to save you, to see you clothed and fed, and now we carry you with us on your own journey of discovery. It’s a good thing that you came to us, Lion. Never doubt that.”

“So, is that what you just do all the time?” Lion asked, curious. “Travel around rescuing people and taking them where they need to go?”

“Yes, in a sense,” Rehgar said, clucking to the kodos again. “While I do spend time in Orgrimmar or our other settlements, much of my time is spent travelling. It’s part of a promise I made to myself, long ago.”

“What promise was that?” Lion asked, curious.

“Oh good, someone _else_ can have their personal history talked about,” Bloodeye grumbled, and then swore. “What was _that_ for?”

“Shut up,” Broll supplied helpfully. “That’s what.”

Rehgar chuckled, though his expression settled into seriousness a moment later. “I have no trouble telling this tale for instructive purposes. Long ago, before the many wars, I was a young shaman of the Thunderlord clan. We lived far north of Oshu’gun, in the sharp-edged mountains. We had a strong association with the ogres and the Mok’nathal, who were of both orcish and ogre blood. Don’t ask exactly how the mixing occurred, it annoys them.” Rehgar rubbed at his ear.

“Very young, you must have been,” Bloodeye snorted. “All the tales speak of how the warlocks accused the shamans and the elements both of turning against them. Shamanism was forbidden by the time we left.”

“I was a raw youngling, yes,” Rehgar agreed. “The spirits of this world are remarkably easy to deal with once you know what you’re doing. On Draenor it could be… terrifying at times, perilous even to the most experienced. I remember… when we _could_ speak to the elements, they wailed and screamed, or lashed out at us. We were blamed for it, of course. The warlocks were more than happy to point out that it was our fault that the elements turned on us, that we had failed at our greatest task. As the orcs turned on the shamans, so too did the young turn on the old.”

“You blamed them too?” Lion asked, incredulous. “Why?”

“As I said, shamanism on Draenor was much more difficult than it is here. We called the most powerful elementals the Furies for good reason. They _raged_ when called upon without proper obeisances made. They were untamed, unquenchable, and the Throne of the Elements was not for the faint of heart. We needed strength in abundance and we had failed utterly in that regard. We were too weak. So as the young do, we challenged our teachers. They had no answers for us, no explanation, and when that failed… we turned from them, one by one. Some became warlocks, others did not.”

“You chose the former path,” Valeera noted. “You became one of them.”

“I did,” Rehgar said, sighing deeply. “I was taken into the lowest circles of the new order, which was not necessarily known as the Shadow Council then, but it might as well have been. We younglings were taught how to call on different powers. To use our blood to make sacrifices, and the blood of other creatures. We were taught how to study the configuration of land, moon, and the stars above to perform summonings and make pacts. All the while, we believed it was better than fasting and scourging and bathing ourselves to make ourselves pure in the sight of the Furies.”

“Why?” Lion asked, his voice soft as the kodos trundled along, oblivious to the revelation. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“...because when people look back and see only despair, the road forward holds hope, no matter how strange it might be,” Valeera said. “And nothing is won without blood and sacrifice. If not yours, then someone else’s.”

“Well spoken, though I don’t excuse my behaviour,” Rehgar said, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I was young, I was foolish, I was eager for more power. I did not ascend particularly high in the circles. There were lines I could not, and did not, cross, though some of them may seem absurd to the people who once called me enemy. I did, however, follow my teachers where they led, until that too became a threshold I would not step across, no matter how I was goaded.”

“So, what happened?” Bloodeye asked gruffly. “What did you see that others didn’t?”

“I suspect a number of others _did_ see it, but simply… betrayal. A blunt word for a terrible thing. When we were still the Horde, and I and my fellows served as warlocks under Gul’dan and Cho’gall, we assaulted the human city of Lordaeron. It was one of the largest we’d seen, vast and--”

“White,” Lion murmured. “And… there were bells.” As his head took up its familiar throbbing, he could hear them ringing urgently. “I remember blood and… madness.”

“You remember the siege?” Rehgar asked, suddenly curious. “Could you be from Lordaeron? There are any number of ways you could have lost your family, depending on how old you are, and what you did.”

Lion focused harder. He could hear the bells distinctly, and his head throbbed with their ringing. “I… don’t remember anything more specific. I feel like I wasn’t from there, but I was visiting. Learning.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not something we can look into directly, but perhaps we can use the Horde’s contacts in the Eastern Kingdoms to find out more. In any case, the Shadow Council -- Gul’dan, Cho’gall, countless others -- abandoned the rest of the Horde at the gates of Lordaeron to pursue their own agenda. I heard later that he was killed for it, and I am glad. He deserved it. We… were not a good people then. Perhaps we deserved to be abandoned by those who’d brought us this low, but we had no idea. We didn’t know what they were doing until it was far too late.”

“I refuse to believe we _deserved_ to be locked up, starved and beaten by humans,” Bloodeye growled. “We didn’t deserve to be used and abandoned by the warlocks either.”

“True enough,” Rehgar murmured. “In any case, once we were defeated, pushed back, and eventually captured, we were put into Internment Camps as Bloodeye said. We were watched over, fed not enough meat and granted too little freedom, but so few truly seemed to care. We were overcome by sickness, by Lethargy, apart from anything the humans did, but it kept us mostly docile. I hid my former affiliation as best I could, though the illness lay less heavily on my bones. Perhaps it was like that with the other warlocks as well, because some of them began to recruit others, the young ones.”

Lion’s stomach churned, uneasy. “For what purpose?”

“Rebellion,” Rehgar said simply. “For the Shadow Council, though they didn’t call it that. Doomhammer had exposed the Council to the light of day, but it didn’t mean they didn’t have a dozen other names for the same cause, and the Council always needed thugs to help enforce its will. Who better to ask than those who were angry, displaced, growing up without any culture other than one of misery and imprisonment. Those who saw humans as enemies for what they did to them and to those they cared for. Those who only saw one side of the war we’d started.”

“Did they go to you?” Bloodeye asked. “Did they recognize you?”

“I feigned ignorance and lethargy until they left me alone,” Rehgar replied. “I did warn the young ones. Some listened, many didn’t. What did I have to offer them other than words?” The orc sighed deeply, and the kodos sighed with him as they stumped along. “Fortunately, there _was_ hope. The return of miracles, of shamanism, to our people. The Frostwolves -- though we did not call them that then -- had not died in the wilderness. They survived by reaching out to new spirits, the spirits of Azeroth. They made friends with native animals, as had ever been their way, and lived in the cold, remote parts of the continent.”

“We turned our backs on them, and they ignored anything outside their mountains,” Bloodeye said, snorting. “We were fortunate about what happened, in the broadest sense.”

“In the broadest sense, certainly,” Rehgar said. “Though I’d imagine the Warchief could have used a little less misery and death.” Lion stared at him, surprise moving through him in a wave. “Ah, but we’re confusing our friend. Before the war ended, the chieftain of the Frostwolves, his mate, and their newly born son sought out Doomhammer to warn him of Gul’dan’s treachery. On the way back, they were ambushed by Gul’dan’s minions and killed to the last, or so the Frostwolves believed. The infant survived and was found by a human named Blackmoore. The same Blackmoore that would come to lord over the Internment Camps. He was given the name Thrall, which in the human tongue means--”

“Slave,” Lion said numbly. “Usually someone who’s enticed into becoming someone’s slave through magic. I’ve heard that part before, somewhere.”

“Interesting,” Rehgar remarked, and continued. “Thrall was trained as a gladiator, educated by humans and taught to hate being an orc. He wasn’t even permitted to learn our language, the language of the clans. He knew only cruelty at Blackmoore’s hands, and kindness only from the sole child of his foster family, a human woman named Taretha Foxton.”

Bloodeye intoned something in orcish, and Valeera copied him. Broll made a curious sound that Lion echoed. “What does that mean?”

“It means, ‘warrior of fire, taken too soon, may her final battle sing through the stars’,” Rehgar explained. “We honour our great, fallen champions with song and story, and their names become signals to invoke that song. We don’t have time now, but we’ll sing it for you, though I’ll have to translate. There’s some nuance lost, but I think you’ll understand.”

“How did she die?” Lion asked. “She did, obviously, otherwise there wouldn’t be a song.”

“She did, but we must get there first. Blackmoore had Thrall educated because he had plans for him, to lead his people into battle against the Alliance of the Eastern Lands. He believed that with an army of obedient orcs at his back, he could do anything.”

Bloodeye snorted hard. “As though we would be befuddled by the sight of green skin and human words. As though we would be led by some scentless child.”

“You were also a child at the time,” Rehgar pointed out. “But you’re correct, and even without the Lethargy dragging at us, we could not have answered Thrall’s call. Eventually, at the cusp of adulthood, Thrall ran away with Taretha’s help. He stumbled onto the Warsong, and then the Frostwolves, who taught him the ways of his people, testing him to be sure he was the son of their beloved Durotan.”

“Durotan… like Durotar?” Lion wondered. “He named his land after his father.”

“He did,” Rehgar agreed. “He named his land after his father, his city after his mentor, and his stronghold after his brother in arms if not in blood. We are ahead of ourselves again. While he was still working to become accepted, a stranger arrived, and this orc was embraced immediately. Thrall was hurt and angry, and demanded to know why he needed to earn his place while the wanderer did not. He was simply told the stranger had already earned his place, and Thrall challenged him. The orc, as it happened was Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde, and Thrall had mostly defeated him when his clansmen pulled him back.”

The scent of smoke filled Lion’s nostrils, and his eyes went wide. He gripped at the seat until his fingers hurt. “And he became Thrall’s mentor, if the naming follows.”

“It does, and you’re upset,” Rehgar said, concerned. “We can skip over some of this, I’m not so hidebound that I have to tell every part of a story.”

“N-no,” Lion replied, swallowing hard, trying to ignore the taste of ash in his mouth. “Please, you’re telling me because it’s important.”

“It is, but I’ll try to be swift about it,” Rehgar promised. “Doomhammer did become Thrall’s mentor, as his father’s old friend Drek’thar had become, as the frost wolf Snowsong, who became his companion, did. He met others, many others, on his journey, including a halforcen woman named Akia who serves as one of his bodyguards.”

“The stories don’t go into much detail about her, but some mention she’s highly sentimental.” Bloodeye snorted. “I think she’s about as sentimental as a punch in the face.”

“Doesn’t that count as courtship for orcs?” Valeera teased. “I’d think you’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll appreciate giving _you_ a punch in the face,” Bloodeye grumbled back.

“This is why storytellers hit people who interrupt them,” Rehgar noted, raising his voice a little. “But if I may continue, we’re getting to the most relevant part, which is to say the rescue. Thrall, Doomhammer, and the Frostwolves moved out to the Internment Camps. Thrall would infiltrate the camps and show them what hope looked like. Not like weapons, not like armies… but growth. He could speak to the spirits of this world, for he was their true child. Seeing it... I don’t know if you can understand what it’s like.”

“I think I would know, if I saw it,” Lion said. The caravan veered slightly as one of the kodo spied a particularly juicy plant jutting out from the side of the worn road. “That was it? That’s what it took?”

“We believed we had been forsaken,” Rehgar said gently, and tugged on the reins a fraction. The kodo sighed and continued to walk, leaving the tasty morsel behind. “We had been abandoned by the spirits of Draenor, by our leaders, by the demons. We believed we were alone. Hopeless and helpless. Seeing Thrall’s command of the elements, his supplications and his care, we believed that there was hope for us. It helped that he freed us from the camps at the head of an army of free orcs that cared for him and trusted him, though Doomhammer still led the Horde.”

“I can see how that would make an impression,” Lion observed, and considered. “Doomhammer didn’t mind?”

“Mind?” Rehgar asked. “No, Thrall was Doomhammer’s heir, promoted above the likes of Grom Hellscream and Varok Saurfang. While Thrall was young, Doomhammer saw that he held the hearts of his people, and we were passing into a new era. On Draenor, it was the strong who survived, but on Azeroth, the strong could be brought low. Our youngest, our littlest, our least remained strong. Hellscream and Thrall were as brothers, and Saurfang preferred to lead warriors, not the whole of the clans.”

“You lost Doomhammer, though,” Valeera observed. “We heard about it. Someone was lucky with a lance.”

“We did, and it brought Thrall great sorrow,” Rehgar said. “During one of the attacks on the camps, Doomhammer was isolated and killed by knights, though Thrall found him before he died. Doomhammer passed the mantle of Warchief on to Thrall, who vowed to carry out his vision. There was so little time to mourn, because this attack had only proven in the eyes of warrior and child alike that we would not be permitted to leave easily.”

“I don’t suppose you could have negotiated with them,” Lion said. “Found a way, somehow, to resolve things peacefully.”

Bloodeye laughed harshly. “Their idea of diplomacy was capturing Doomhammer and keeping him in one of their human jails for years before ordering his execution. I think the time for negotiation was over.”

“No one quite knew what Terenas was doing, or frankly, how he lost Doomhammer,” Valeera noted. “I don’t suppose in all of this tale, you know how he escaped?”

“No one knows,” Rehgar said. “He never told anyone, not Thrall, not Hellscream. The secret has died with him, though I haven’t even tried to speculate. Even shamans can’t walk through walls.”

“Pity,” Valeera said. “But we -- or I, at least -- know how the next part goes. The orc army arrived at Durnholde Keep, the headquarters of the Internment Camps, and Thrall demanded that his people be released. Blackmoore mocked him, dared him to try to take the Keep, all the while…” She trailed off, suddenly uncertain. “Maybe we shouldn’t--”

“It’s not as if he couldn’t already guess,” Bloodeye said, though his voice was pitched with sorrow, instead of the more common anger. “Blackmoore had learned that Taretha had helped Thrall escape from Durnholde, that she’d welcomed him when he’d returned. He captured her, and killed her, and threw that in Thrall’s face.”

“We feared he would go mad,” Rehgar murmured, fussing at the reins as Lion stared at him, horrified and sickened. “We feared he would tear Durnholde down, and take our hope with it. The spirits cannot be used for selfish ends, for revenge. It was with the greatest amount of willpower that I’d ever seen that Thrall let Blackmoore hide behind his walls, that he led his army -- his Horde -- to combat the humans fairly. He killed Blackmoore in a duel that was as fair as it could be, and sent the surviving humans away to inform their leader what had happened. Then he brought Durnholde down, so it could never be used again as a prison. He took the time to honour Doomhammer and Taretha both, each as warriors fallen on the path to freedom. We were waiting for the humans to respond to us when our destiny came to Thrall on the wings of birds.”

“Then you came here, to Kalimdor to fight the demons,” Broll observed. “To prevent the very end of the world. It’s quite a destiny.”

“It is,” Rehgar said. “One we’re proud of and must always strive to be worthy of. It’s why we work hard every day, why we fight for what we have. There are those who would take it from us. Humans who disagree with Jaina Proudmoore and resent the fact that we live freely at all. The Shadow Council, who want to see us enthralled to demons again. Harpies and centaur, some of the quillboar. We’ve had trouble with other troll tribes and dissenting tauren. Sometimes it’s even the weather, or problems with distressed spirits. We must fight back, be proud of what we’ve accomplished, and never give up on what we’ve earned.”

“I think that makes sense,” Lion said slowly, turning the words over. “Even if not everyone agrees. I think even terrible mistakes can be made up for, if you mean what you say… but do your enemies know this? The ones that could listen and comprehend. I don’t think you can argue with the weather.”

“You’d be surprised,” Rehgar said ruefully. “It’s possible they don’t know, or don’t care to, but none of these stories are secret. We tell them over and over, repeating them at gatherings. Sharing the Warchief’s story, our story, is important.”

“Taretha’s too, if you have an invocation,” Lion noted. “Though… if she was so important to Thrall, why didn’t he name anything after her?”

“Ah,” Rehgar said, smiling broadly. “He did. Grommash Hold was named for Hellscream, because he was the last bastion against the darkness. Orgrimmar was named after Orgrim Doomhammer because he had a dream to see his people free of imprisonment, living together. Durotar was named after Durotan because he sincerely believed in a united orc race, and in the Horde’s future. When we stop for the night, I will point out the brightest star in the sky, bright even when the moons are in their fullness. That star guided Thrall across Kalimdor, lighting his path as Taretha lit his way through life, and so he named it after her.”

“...and stars never die,” Lion murmured. “They glow forever. What about his mother?”

“Ah, yes. Now, all of those were ‘things’. Places, really. Draka was a fierce warrior in life, and though Thrall never knew her, he wanted to honour her memory in a special way. In Thrall’s Horde, anyone can become a warrior, no matter how great or small. This was not always so when Blackhand and Gul’dan ruled. Our women also suffered greatly in the camps, violated and victimized by humans and sometimes even orcs. Thrall wanted to make sure that such would never happen again. Our troll allies also had some traditions barring women from fighting, and he would not condone such an attitude, so when he created the Kor’Kron, which any qualified warrior could join, he also created a special fighting force, aimed at training women. He called them the Daughters of Draka, because they were his mother’s successors as fierce warriors, and they represented a brighter, better future where all would be equal.”

“Any mother would be honoured, I think,” Lion said, and gazed off into the distance. As though sensing the importance of the moment, and the way the words resonated deep in Lion’s soul, one of the kodos defecated noisily as it walked, and the caravan’s wheels rolled through it.

“Urgh,” Bloodeye muttered. “Kodo shit.”

~ * ~

It was near to sunset when the caravan stopped for the evening, and Lion could see what Rehgar meant by ‘rest stops’. There were large, flattened areas near either side of the road, big enough for Reghar to steer the kodos towards, that they might be unharnessed and wander a few paces away to chew on the nearby waving grasses.

Lion was tasked with unloading the caravan, passing bedrolls and baskets of camping supplies out to Broll, while Rehgar and Bloodeye unpacked. Valeera had vanished the moment the kodos had been unhitched, leaving Bloodeye to grumble.

“It will be a fair night,” Rehgar commented. “It’s far too early for the Razor Winds, and the spirits do not speak of rain. We’ll just use the bedrolls.”

“We should… ask Valeera what she thinks,” Lion noted, swallowing heavily. “She might want the extra privacy.”

“She could, yes,” Rehgar allowed. “Would you prefer it?”

“I…” Lion felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment. “It’s not… not like that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, to find comfort with another person,” Rehgar noted. “You seemed like you slept better.”

“It _was_ just sleeping,” Lion insisted. “I didn’t want to sleep alone, and being with another person felt… familiar. Comforting. I didn’t have nightmares.”

“And Valeera is not one compelled to doing things that are discomforting for her, in my experience,” Rehgar said, and patted his arm. “Though she does deserve her privacy as well.”

“Of course, I understand,” Lion said quickly, and cast about for a less personally embarrassing subject. “So, this is a campground?”

“It is, yes,” Rehgar replied, chuckling. “It’s a safe place for people traveling along the road to rest overnight so they aren’t forced to sleep in their caravans, though some do anyway. Their animals can rest, they can hunt, wash, rest--”

“Cook,” Bloodeye broke in. “Though one has to bring their own wood.” He gestured across the horizon that ended only in the shadow of mountains. “We have little here. The forests have pulled up their skirts and hidden with the elves.” He snorted. “We’re lucky they share a little.”

“The humans share too,” Rehgar noted, with a quirk of amusement on his lips. “And we’re not without our own resources, especially with goblin help.”

“I thought goblins were… untrustworthy,” Lion said slowly as he set up bedrolls. “Didn’t Bloodeye--”

“There are goblins, and there are goblins,” Bloodeye grumbled. “Which is why ‘Bloodeye’ thought he could trust them. The Warchief is friends with some of the Steamwheedle goblins. Gazlowe, who runs Ratchet. He helped build Orgrimmar, Thrall considers him trustworthy. But there are a lot of different kinds of goblins. The goblins know industry and trade. They teach, but not without cost.”

“Everything comes with a price,” Rehgar chided. “You either pay in time or in currency. So we could have spent generations working out how to gather lumber and make mines that don’t fail swiftly, or we could pay them to teach us. We’ll learn, and our debts will be paid.”

 _In time or in money,_ Lion thought, considering. _That sounds… familiar. I wonder--_

“There’s a third thing,” said Valeera, appearing suddenly, a gazelle draped over her shoulders, dangling though hardly weighing her down. “You can also pay in blood.”

“Sometimes, a combination of all three,” Broll noted, and moved to join her. “That was fast.”

“There’s a whole herd moving through. This one is on the small side, but Bloodeye will be able to smoke the rest overnight.”

“Oh, will Bloodeye?” the orc gladiator grumbled. “What will we do when Bloodeye isn’t here?”

“Suffer, mostly,” Valeera replied, cheerful. “In the meantime, we still need to eat.”

Bloodeye grumbled again, but built up a fire, bringing out a metal cylinder and setting it out. Lion watched, fascinated, as Bloodeye picked out wood and charcoal, discarding some while muttering. Reghar brought him water while Valeera and Broll skinned and dressed the gazelle, speaking softly to one another in a foreign, shared tongue.

“This is a smoker. It will take hours to smoke the meat,” Bloodeye explained gruffly, to the wood chips and charcoal. “So we’re going to roast enough on the spit to eat, then smoke the rest. When it cools, we’ll be able to carry it with us. Then, hot or cold, it will be safe to eat.”

“Do you do this often?” Lion asked, curious. “You cooked the crocolisk too.”

“Someone has to feed us while we’re on the road, it may as well be me,” Bloodeye said, shrugging. “I’m not terrible at it. I’ve done it for people before, my friend’s family, for others. Not every community has big meals like the one in the Crossroads, but everyone needs to eat.”

“I think you’re very good at it,” Lion said, sincere. “So why not do that instead of fighting in an arena?”

“It’s not fast enough,” Bloodeye muttered, and sighed, some of the strength going out of his shoulders. “I need to do something now, and I _am_ a warrior. I’ve fought since the Camps, since we came here. I can be good at it, as good as the Warchief was. He finds shame in his past, but we’ve heard the stories. He was _better_ than they were. Stronger, faster. Smarter. I can be too.”

“...but didn’t Thrall fight so you didn’t have to?” Lion asked, unease and worry prickling across his skin. “So you didn’t need to be a gladiator or a slave?”

“Valeera said it. You pay in time, in currency… or in blood. It’s a kind of currency. You’re _fussing_ , human. I’ve accepted my path.”

“You’re being stubborn,” Lion insisted. “I don’t think you thought this through. People could _help_ you. We could--”

“I think,” Bloodeye snarled. “You’d better go.”

“Over here,” Broll called. “Lion, come see what we’re doing.”

Reluctantly, Lion stood, and went over to where the elves were sitting. Despite their best efforts, he could see the sticky splashes of blood from their work, and his gaze slid from the butchered meat to Broll’s face. “It… looks like you’re still doing what you were doing a half-hour ago."

“I needed to get you away from Bloodeye,” Broll said, apologetic. “If it bothers you, try not to look. Not everyone appreciates where their meat comes from.”

“I didn’t think elves ate meat,” Lion confessed, a memory niggling at his mind. “It’s something I heard, once.”

“The Quel’dorei need less meat than humans do,” Valeera said. “The Sindorei are just the same. We still enjoy it though, and orcs need their meat. I don’t mind doing the hunting.”

“The Kaldorei are hunters, like the tauren,” Broll added. “We don’t have farms, not like the tauren or the orcs, so we tend to eat a bit more meat. Our forests teem with life, and while having gardens is fine, it doesn’t make for large-scale population growth. Almost all of our cleared land was destroyed a long time ago.”

“Oh,” Lion said. “So, do you have a garden? What do you grow there? I asked so many questions about the tauren and the orcs, I didn’t think to ask about--”

“I don’t live there,” Broll said, voice gentle. “I haven’t lived there for a long time. I live from the land as I travel, eating whatever’s convenient. I’m a druid, so sometimes that means eating like an animal, while in times like this I can just enjoy the food you eat.”

“What else _do_ you eat, when you can?”

“Bread, fruit, vegetables,” Valeera said. “Maybe less bread for the Kaldorei.”

“Less bread, more vegetables,” Broll said. “Fruit is popular too, especially berries. Berries grow nearly everywhere. Infusions of boiled herbs and plants. Tea, obviously. Old legends say tea was brought to Kalimdor by an old, extinct race that made tea their art.”

“Food was something of an… art form in Quel’Thalas,” Valeera said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “It wasn’t just what we ate, it was how it looked, the way flavour and texture mixed together. The right plate was like a canvas. It’s not like that any more, obviously.”

“That’s… sad,” Lion said. “I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, no one’s more sorry than we are,” Valeera replied. “But we’re not in Quel’Thalas any more, or Ashenvale. We’re here, and we have meat to cook.”

“Which is why you should stop sitting around gossiping and bring it to me,” Bloodeye grumped. "I’m getting hungry!”

“I feel like every time we get together,” Lion said as the elves stood, “we talk about food.”


	6. Late Spring, Year 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What up, motherfuckers, _it lives_! I'm actually on a decent roll, so you might get to see the end of this section sometimes soon, but I don't want to spam chapters, and also, beta reading. So enjoy!

The gazelle, as it happened, was delicious.

Lion recognized the flavour of the meat in a general sense -- one of the meats from the previous night’s meal -- but it tasted differently when it was roasted on a spit and chopped into generous, thick pieces, and the scent of the smoker working away added yet more to the experience.

“Tell me about Quel’Thalas,” Lion urged. Valeera looked down, picking at her  _ gresht.  _ “Please?”

“Alright,” Valeera agreed. “But it won’t be as personal as Rehgar’s story. Quel’Thalas was founded about six thousand years ago by Kaldorei exiles. There had been a war, and that war was terrible. Their old Queen, Azshara, had bargained with demons and had summoned them with their leader’s help.”

“The stories of Azshara have been passed down through many generations of Kaldorei,” Broll told Lion. “There are even many who lived through the war of the Ancients who are still alive today. I am too young, being only a youthful two thousand years old myself, but our leaders were part of it. It was, of course, a long time ago.”

“Of course,” Lion muttered, his head swimming. “You don’t look--”

“Kaldorei society had always divided itself into two parts,” Valeera interrupted, and Lion looked to her. “Into the Highborne, the mages, and the Lowborn, everyone else.”

“I remember, you mentioned the Highborne live in Eldre’thalas,” Lion said, sitting forward a little. “The Quel’dorei.”

Valeera nodded. “During the War, some of the Highborne sided with Azshara, though many others turned on her, escaping when they could. Illidan the Saviour--”

“Betrayer,” Broll said, making a face. Valeera made one right back.

“--helped them escape her clutches and they joined the Lowborn in fighting against her. After the War was over, the balance of power had shifted. The magicless weren’t entirely magicless. They were druids and priests and champions -- what humans would call paladins -- and they were not pleased with the Highborne or their magic.”

“Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage made them swear they they would never use their magic again,” Broll said. “Which they did, but broke that promise fairly quickly.”

“Ancient Kaldorei society was full of magical conveniences,” Valeera explained. “Few of them wanted to live outdoors with the animals, especially with demons about. Not something druids worried about much.” She snorted.

“The Highborne rebelled against the Archdruid’s decree, first in secret, and then openly. The burned a whole swathe of Ashenvale down, and for that they were exiled.” Lion stared at Broll, and he shrugged. “It wasn’t always called Ashenvale, either.”

“So the Highborne, their families, and some few sympathetic allies sailed across the Great Sea -- a Sea that hadn’t been there originally -- into the unknown. In this case, it was what had remained of an old territory called Tirisfal. It was good and temperate, which they found to be a great relief… until people started going crazy.”

“...crazy?” Lion repeated. “How could the land make them go mad?”

“No one knows, even now,” Valeera said. “But the survivors -- led by Dath’remar and his close friends -- certainly weren’t willing to stay. They used magic to lead them out, to the north, through dark forests and to the very tip of the continent. There was power there, and it was power they needed. They founded our home of Quel’Thalas there, the high home of the elves.”

Lion nodded a little, and vaguely, around discomfort and the now-expected throbbing of his temples, he recalled figures wrapped in blankets, huddled on heavily laden --  _ ships? Is it ships? --  _ vehicles, staring without seeing, shivering from loss as much as fear. “But what was it  _ like?” _

“Patience,” Broll soothed. “Eat your meal.”

Lion flushed, but nodded, chewing with determination on his helping of  _ gresht. _

“I’m not particularly old,” Valeera warned. “Dath’remar and his friends -- Adaraxiel the Fire’s Song and Valentia the Wind Runner -- were the founding members of the Conclave of Silvermoon -- named after our capital city -- and named the magical gate that protected the city as a last resort -- the Gate of Three Moons. Dath’remar became the first King, and his legacy, the Sunstrider Dynasty, ruled until the city’s fall.”

Broll choked briefly, and took a swig of water from a flask. Valeera frowned at him direly. “Sorry, go on.”

“You did that the last time I mentioned the King’s family too,” she said disapprovingly, but continued. “Adaraxiel was Dath’remar’s second in command and close friend, so it made sense for him to become his majordomo, and so that became his family’s position. Valentia became their first Ranger-General, and her family continued on the tradition. There’s a lot of that in Quel’Thalas. Tradition. Family. Or, there was.”

Lion nodded encouragingly. “What about all the others? Those who didn’t have magic?”

“Well, they weren’t going to redivide along the old lines. No point, and it  _ was  _ harmful. Instead, those who had magic vowed to make things good for all those who didn’t have magic too, but more than that… they weren’t going to deal with demons again. Dath’remar and his mages had created a powerful wellspring, the Sunwell. The centre and heart of Quel’thalas. To protect it, he commissioned mages and druids to ward the land itself and protect it from demons. The family that did that became the Runekeepers, and their task was to protect the land while they wove their enchantments.”

“They changed the land,” Broll said, keeping his voice mild. “They twisted it and changed it.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Valeera chided him. “As it turned out, Quel’Thalas got pretty damned cold during the Winters, which was the first thing that had to go. The spells cast on the land were created to repel cold, and to keep the land warm and prevent anything but the nicest weather. It could get hot, but not too hot, and cool, but not cold. Eternally Spring and Summer, never Autumn or Winter.”

“The spirits would be horrified by such,” Rehgar murmured. “What about the land around the wards?”

Valeera shrugged. “We dumped snow onto Lordaeron and weren’t particularly sorry about it. They were used to it.”

Broll muttered under his breath, though Lion found it brilliant, and said so. “So it’s always sunny in Silvermoon?”

“Not always,” Valeera said. “Rain is useful, but it’s not a rain that destroys or harms. Was. Always was.” She sighed. “Once the weather had been taken care of, we could start to build. No one really wanted to do the physical labour involved, and they realized they didn’t  _ have  _ to. Mages come in all stripes, the arcanists and the golem makers and so on. They gathered enough supplies to create arcane constructs that were intelligent enough to take directions, and not intelligent enough for anything else. Between their labour and the mages, we built our first city, and then as time passed, other villages elsewhere, though we never made another true city. Quel’Thalas wasn’t big enough for it.”

“Big enough..?” Lion wondered, curious. “Why would you need to worry about that?”

“Cities take a lot of work,” Valeera said. “A lot of time, people, and resources. Villages are easier, particularly considering how we lived. Silvemoon was the heart of our civilization, nestled around the Sunwell.”

“So, how  _ did  _ the Highborne live, free from supervision?” Broll asked, raising a feathery eyebrow.

“Well, as I said, the arcane constructs did the building, and all other physical labour, with people to direct them. Once we didn’t need as many for big building projects, we made smaller, more specialized ones. Ones that could tend fields or clean houses or sweep streets. Even make things, so long as they were simple. For anything nicer, they’d need to be made ‘by hand’, though there was plenty of magic to that too.”

“So, you had farms, but not farmers?” Lion guessed, and Valeera nodded. “That must have been strange.”

“Not to us, we were used to it,” Valeera said. “Many elves found humans to be strange. Human farmers tend to be simple folk: not extremely well educated, often isolated from the greater affairs of their nation, and tend to keep to themselves and their neighbours. Elven farmers are full members of society, and some of them are actually considered to be fairly popular and well-educated. Saltheril Suntouched owned a ranch where he raised deer that were used for meat, rather than beef or pork.”

“All the charm of game with none of the work,” Broll remarked. “So he was… directing golems?”

“Yes,” Valeera said. “He would command them to feed the deer and inspect their enclosure and stable. The constructs would keep their bedding clean and change it when it was dirty. He would inspect the animals himself using a few simple cantrips to make sure they weren’t injured or diseased. He would trade some of the meat to the butchers for their work and sell the rest. They also made their own alcohol, as I recall it. His ‘special reserve’.”

“You said you ate a lot of fruit too, and bread,” Lion said, absorbing this. “Was this done the same way?”

“Essentially, yes,” Valeera said. “Some farmers owned large plantations, growing wheat or vegetables, and others owned orchards where we harvested fruit of all kinds. Others raised spiders for their silk, while some farmers prefered less vicious crops, like cotton or to raise goats for wool. There were any number of vineyards too. Since we never needed to feed farmhands, it made it more profitable to sell the excess and move the goods along.”

Lion nodded. “...so what about everyone else?”

“Every society has tiers, and while ours weren’t incredibly even, they were more even than most,” Valeera began, ignoring the look on Broll’s face. “The craftsmen were well-trained, and usually worked by hand. Only the guild masters directed golems, while the rest produced one-of-a-kind items. The clothing that we bought for you wasn't custom made.. It was meant to fit a certain size of person, and you matched that. When we had your boots made, _ those  _ were made for you, and that gets to be expensive. In Quel'thalas, everything was made like that, from ballgowns to smallclothes.”

“Wouldn’t that make it… very expensive? Like my vest?” Lion asked, and Valeera nodded.

“Expensive had a different scale, since there weren’t people who were exactly poor,” Valeera said. “Though that has some exceptions too. Carpenters made chairs to order, beautifully carved and painted creations, often with soft cushions. Low couches were common. Tailors bought beautifully dyed materials and wove and sewed them into masterpieces, like portraits. I mentioned before that elven food was like art, because cooking counts as crafting. Even if things were temporary, only to be worn once or cooked and then eaten, people made much of it. They were all artists.”

“It sounds… beautiful,” Lion said wistfully. “What did other people do?”

“The Rangers of Quel’thalas were guided by the Windrunners and had different contributing bodies, like the Farstriders and the Brightwings. Even if you weren’t members of those families, you could still join up and be adopted into them. The Rangers patrolled the forests, dealing with dangerous things as necessary and practicing their skills. We lived in paradise, but it wasn’t without danger. Mostly from the trolls.”

“Were you a ranger?” Lion asked, curious. “Is that why you move so quietly?”

“Not exactly,” Valeera said. “I had a different job. The farmers, the crafters, the rangers… the Priesthood. While the Church of the Light did have a place in Quel’Thalas, most of our priesthood was dedicated to Belore, the Sun God you heard about, and has strong ties to the royal family. He was the focus of much of our iconography, and a representation of the Sunwell’s strength and our success in the Eastern Lands, away from Kalimdor. The priests kept the fires burning eternally with special wood harvested from arboreal plantations, lighting incense and candles, and kept bees.”

“Bees?” Bloodeye asked, breaking into the conversation. “Why bees?”  

“Why not bees?” Valeera countered. “They are very useful, bee-lieve it or not.” Bloodeye groaned, and went back to his meat. “There were the military forces too. The Spellbreakers, who were specially trained to fight magic users, because we knew well how dangerous magic could be. The Sunfury army, the might of Quel’Thalas brought to bear; the Dawnchasers, our navy, who protected our fishermen, and of course, the Sunguard, who were stationed to protect the Sunwell itself. They had different leaders -- Generals, Admirals -- though one of the great ones was Dorozhand. He led the Sunguard and was protecting the Sunwell when the city fell.”

“I’m sorry,” Lion said, softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“So are we all,” Valeera said with a sigh. “There were the mages, of course. The Circle that channeled the Sunwell, using its magic to benefit Quel’Thalas. The Runekeepers, as mentioned before, though their family had been weakened considerably after the Second War, considering how many of them had died defending the Cairn Stones from the orcs. The nobility, of which there were about three times as many as strictly necessary, because all the old families, all those related to the Sunstriders and the other families by marriage and by ancient connections wanted to be heard at Court.”

“The Conclave, too,” Lion said. “You mentioned them.”

“I did,” Valeera said. “The Conclave of Silvermoon consisted of the heads of all the noble families, and many of the old ones. The Windrunners had a speaker, the leaders of the crafting guilds, the representatives of many of the farming communities. While our King was extremely important, the ruler of a dynasty, our ancestors wouldn’t allow another Azshara, another ruler unchecked by their people. So, the people have a voice. In theory, it’s a fantastic idea. We weren’t quite as democratic as Dalaran, it was more roughly on par with the Ironforge senate, but it worked. In practice, when you put enough people in a room and ask them to make decisions… nothing happens.”

“If you put more than two people in a room you get much the same result,” Broll noted. “How bad was it?”

“Fairly bad,” Valeera admitted. “We had a faction of isolationists gaining ground, worse every decade. Despite two wars. Probably  _ because  _ of two wars.”

“Isolationists?” Lion wondered. “Isolated from what?”

“Everyone,” Broll and Valeera said at the same time, and the latter made a face. “Our way of living already made us very isolated, disinclined to expand due to our need for the Sunwell. There were a handful of lodges elsewhere, mostly diplomatic outposts with Lordaeron, Khaz Modan, and Aerie Peak, plus the expatriates in Dalaran, but for the most part, elves lived with elves, in elven land, eating elven food, wearing elven clothing, and playing elven games. There were things from other places that were filtering in. Human styles and ideas, dwarven crafts, gnomish inventions. The very existence of Shanodorei.”

“Shano-- what?”

“Half-Elves, humans call them. Shanodorei means ‘human elf’, because of course, humans only see the elven part, and elves only see the human part.” Valeera snorted. “There weren’t many, but the primary branch of the Windrunner family was getting famous for it. It was a reminder of sorts. About a lack of ‘purity’ that came with fraternizing with non-elves. So the isolationists wanted to cut us off from them entirely. Call all the pureblooded elves back, kick out the halfbreeds, and close the gates.”

“That seems… awful,” Lion said. “Did they really hate humans that much?”

“Probably. They must have hated money too, because we had a thriving trade by both land and sea, and our alliance with Dalaran was a prosperous one too. The Conclave was usually at a stalemate because of it, with plenty of people on both sides shouting about it… until the orcs came to our doorstep, allied with the trolls. We needed the humans then, and they needed us. Needed you.” She nods to Lion, acknowledging his race, even as Bloodeye grumbled. “Once the Alliance was formed, the isolationists quieted down, more or less until the war was over. Then they started up again.”

“I’d say being so two-faced was unthinkable, but the Horde’s allies abandoned it as soon as Doomhammer fell,” Bloodeye growled. “The trolls went back to their forests, and the goblins to their cities, counting their gold. The ogres fled across the sea, it’s why we found them here when we were finally free from the Camps.”

“I’ve always been curious about that,” Broll said. “I was under the impression that ogres weren’t very… clever.”

“You mean that they shit outdoors and speak of themselves in the third person?” Bloodeye said. “Back on Draenor, the seas were so hostile they’d kill anyone but the strongest. The ogres  _ were  _ the strongest. They built great ships that could withstand the burning seas and hunted sea serpents with spears. Some could even swim. There were tales, old tales, that the ogres  _ lived  _ in the sea, before it burned and everything died. When we fought the humans in their great battleships, the ogres were able to build their own ships and crewed them. I always thought they were too stupid to be afraid of open water.”

Lion stared at the orc warrior as he shrugged, and dug into his meat. “But where did they… go? To… defecate?”

“Probably in the water,” Bloodeye said, shrugging again. “It’s where the fish people go.”

“I think my head hurts,” Lion murmured, and Broll patted his shoulder gently. “I don’t want to think about how ogres go to the bathroom.”

“Then I suggest thinking about something else. Bloodeye! Are you ready, or are you too fat and lazy?” Valeera asked brightly. “You need to practice.”

“The day I’m too full of meat to beat you with a stick is the day I let the goblins collect my head,” Bloodeye grumbled, and finished off the last of his meal before standing and stretching hugely. “Bring it on!”

_ “Not  _ at the campsite, if you please, move onto the road,” Rehgar warned. “You’ll kick up dust.”

“Yes, Warchief,” Bloodeye said, and Rehgar snorted at his tone, which to Lion sounded rather like, ‘yes, Father’.

Valeera sprang up lightly, and sauntered onto the open road, peering into the darkness in either direction, trying to catch sight of any who might disrupt their duel. She drew one of her daggers and made a cut across the road, more or less straight. Bloodeye took up one of his axes, and did the same on his side.

“What are they doing?” Lion asked softly, watching with some fascination. “Aren’t they going to damage the road?”

“Not more than traveling on it does, and the Warchief’s patrols will fill any holes with dirt and pack it down,” Rehgar said, moving to sit closer to them. “They do this most nights, if it won’t disturb you.”

“No, I don’t think it will,” Lion said. “But  _ why  _ are they doing it? The cutting, I mean, I understand they’re duelling.”

“They’re making a duelling circle,” Broll said. “Some people duel to first blood or to three hits, neither of which is really helpful or practical for Bloodeye if he’s going to the arena. So they try to force each other out of the circle. It’s harder than it looks.”

There was something to it, but Lion couldn’t think what, a state he was becoming distinctly more annoyed by every day. “If it’s supposed to be a circle, why does it look more like a square?”

“A vagary of language I’ve never fully understood,” Broll confessed, and Rehgar frowned.

“Well, I believe boxing rings were originally circular, but are now square,” he said. “Perhaps it’s the same idea.”

“It’s confusing,” Lion confessed. “But I suppose, no more confusing than anything else.”

“You should ask questions about anything you feel confused about,” Rehgar said warmly. “We will do our best to help you. Broll and I have been at this for some time, traveling the roads of Kalimdor offering aid. Bloodeye is joining us for the first -- and last -- time, but Valeera is new as well, joining us from early in the season.”

On the road, once the lines had been cut to both combattants’ satisfaction, they moved to the center and crossed arms, each one gripping their weapon of choice, and stood poised, staring into each other’s eyes as if they could read their opponent’s mind.

“Go,” Rehgar barked out, and they spun away from each other, circling, watching for an opening. As promised, Bloodeye’s bare feet and Valeera’s red leather boots kicked up dust from the dry road, producing a low cloud that drifted with the wind.

“Do you know why?” Lion asked, not daring to look away from the sight. “About Valeera, I think I understand Bloodeye.”

“She has not chosen to reveal much of herself,” Rehgar said. “And we must respect that at all times.”

“I suppose not everyone has nightmares,” Lion admitted. “I feel like everyone knows my business.”

“We actually know less of you than we do of ourselves,” Broll said, and stretched out a little, leaning back against one of the bedrolls. Lion’s gaze was drawn downwards, to the long stretch of his stomach, to the all but sculpted row of muscles that led to his broad chest and shoulders, and found his mouth quite dry. Broll chuckled softly, and gestured. “Enjoying the view?”

“I--” He flushed, and looked back up at the duel. Valeera darted towards Bloodeye, swinging with her dagger. Bloodeye parried it easily, and shied away from the attack that came in from below, her left hand wielding a second dagger with equal skill to the right. Bloodeye growled and took a great, backhanded swipe at her, forcing Valeera to retreat back, and circle once more around her adversary.

“Valeera and I were talking about you, before I called you over,” Broll said. “She told me that sleeping with someone helps you with your nightmares, and you mentioned it to Rehgar as well. She can’t always be at your side, but if you’re willing, I can substitute. I’m normally more awake at night, so I can watch over you while everyone else sleeps.”

“I… thank you,” Lion said. “Actually, I’d hoped you would know something about them, since you’re a druid.”

“I know some things, but not everything,” Broll admitted easily. “I have walked the verdant paths of the Emerald Dream. I don’t know if humans do, even in their sleep.”

“There are many paths over Azeroth,” Rehgar remarked. “The path of spirits, the path of elements, the path of dreams, the path of the arcane.”

“The arcane?” Lion asked, blinking. “Is this related to warlocks?”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Rehgar acknowledged. “While I am a shaman, and the Horde has few mages  _ or  _ warlocks, we are allied with the humans, who have many mages and as such, the Warchief felt that it was important for us to be informed. While we don’t have human learning-circles -- schools, you call them -- we do convey information through telling circles. I was invited to one to learn of the arcane path, and how mages interact with the world around them. It was fascinating stuff.”

“I find it remarkable that the mages are even allowed to remain,” Broll commented. “My people have hated arcane magic since the Sundering, but these humans must bring something different to the table.”

“I feel as though they would be hard pressed to hate someone like the Lady of Theramore, even if they weren’t her close allies,” Rehgar said. “From what was said, and what I understood, arcane magic is everywhere in this world, like the elements and the spirits, but it isn’t a realm apart, like the Emerald Dream. There are two kinds of arcane magic, the first is like a constant light rain, or mist, that falls eternally on the world. Ambient magic.”

“Less of it here than there is in, say, Quel’thalas,” Broll noted. “But enough.”

“Indeed,” Rehgar said. “The second kind is that which has already come to ground and settled onto invisible, carved paths, very much like roads. That’s ley magic, and the paths are called ley lines. Sometimes, the magic gathers into larger dips in the arcane landscape, and those are ley nodes. We have only a few large ones here, the greatest being that of the second Well of Eternity, and after that, the node beneath Theramore. There are a few in southern Kalimdor as well, but far fewer than in the eastern lands.”

“I don’t believe such things existed long ago,” Broll said, frowning a little. “It must have been caused by the Sundering.”

“...the great war you spoke of?” Lion said, though his gaze was drawn back to the duel by the sound of steel ringing against steel. Bloodeye and Valeera clashed again and again. The elven woman was swift and sure, using both her daggers to find openings where none seemed to exist, while Bloodeye used strength to make great, dangerous swings. Something about how he fought reminded Lion of someone, of warnings.

Valeera, too, reminded him of someone, but not the same person.

“Yes,” Broll said, frowning at the duellists. “But you wanted to talk about your dreams.”

_ A touchy subject, perhaps?  _ Lion wondered, but nodded. “I did. I see… I have dreams of someone who must be my wife, and our child. She says that I killed her. That it was my fault she was dead. Could she… could the birth of our child have killed her? Could I have pushed her to have a child she didn’t want? Could I have refused her doctors?”

“Do you think that you did?” Broll asked mildly, and Lion looked down at his hands.

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t remember much of my life, and it hurts to try, but I feel… I feel as though she was my whole world. That I would have listened to her if she felt having a child was wrong, and I would have found her doctors and healers.”

“If you were not well off,” Rehgar noted, “it might have been difficult. Humans approach such matters differently than orcs or tauren.”

“No,” Lion insisted. “I don’t remember how to farm, so I probably lived in a city. There are a lot of things I don’t know how to do, so I would have had to pay in  _ money  _ wouldn’t I? Not in time or in blood?”

“Someone paid in blood, I suspect,” Broll observed, and held his hand out to Lion. Cautiously, he took it, and the druid drew him in close, settling Lion against his side. Even past sunset, he felt sun-warmed and cozy. Rehgar made a soft noise, not quite a chuckle, and withdrew himself from the fire. “I’m sorry that you lost your family, no matter how it happened. I’ve known loss too. We all have, I think.”

Lion let his head rest against Broll’s shoulder, and it was more difficult to see the duel past the dust, but he found that he was still more comfortable. “What happened? Will you tell me?”

“It’s difficult for me to speak of it,” Broll said. “But I will say this. Once, I was very lost. Frightened, angry, wild. My family tended to me, and accepted me for who I was, no matter how strange that might be. Then the demons came. They sickened, and were put down, like animals, by those whom they should have been able to trust.”

“I’m sorry,” Lion whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am too,” Broll said, and wrapped his arm around Lion. “I couldn’t bear to be near those who had killed them, near the home they used to live in. So I came south. There’s not much to remind me of home here. No trees, none of the same animals… different people. I hadn’t seen another elf in years before Valeera joined us, and she is of a people much changed by the centuries away from Kalimdor.”

“...will you be upset when we make it south?” Lion asked, suddenly worried. “We’re visiting people like yours, the Highborne.”

“The Highborne are very much not like my people,” Broll said. “They are the last of the Kaldorei mages, those that left before the banishment, and remained in Kalimdor, far out of reach of our leaders. They rule themselves, though perhaps not well. They have changed less than one might think.”

“Is that good, or bad?”

“They still look like us, though the Highborne were notoriously pale, quite a few shades lighter than myself.” Broll held up his free arm, indicating. “Many of them are accomplished mages. They are decadent and dislike doing hard work, just as you heard of Valeera’s people. The greatest difference, of course, is the source of their power. There is no Sunwell, no Well of Eternity to tap. I have wondered where they get their magic, but Eldre'thalas isn’t open to strangers. Certainly, not to a druid.”

“What does that mean for Bloodeye?” The subject of their conversation was roaring now, swinging and striking as Valeera fought to dodge without giving so much ground. She was hard-pressed to keep Bloodeye at bay, not with the orc using his superior strength to swing hard and keeping her off-balance. There was something about it that nagged at Lion, like one of his old memories, but not quite as painful.

“Oh, they will let  _ him  _ in,” Broll assured Lion. “Just not all the way in. The gladiators have their own accommodations, places for them to eat and bathe and get massaged. The Highborne love their entertainment and they’re quite pleased to work with the ogres to have it. No gladiator would ever get that far inside the city.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Lion said, and considered. Valeera was backed against the edge of their tiny arena, and Bloodeye was grinning, well-pleased with himself. She turned slightly, avoiding another blow. “Do you think he’ll be happy?”

“It’s hard to say,” Broll said slowly. “He’s certainly a good fighter, and it’s a good outlet for his anger, at himself and at others. No one goes to those arenas without reason. This isn’t like what happened to Thrall, where he was forced into it by a cruel master.”

“...but he  _ is  _ in debt,” Lion pressed. “That could count as being coerced, couldn’t it?”

“It could, yes,” Broll agreed. “But he did have other options. This is just the one he chose, because while Bloodeye is talented--”

The orc’s roar echoed across the road as he lunged, and Valeera side-stepped, shoving him hard. Bloodeye stumbled past the cut line, and Rehgar clapped his hands hard, indicating the duel was over. The soon-to-be gladiator growled, turning towards the smaller elven woman, who nodded to him once, and put her weapons away.

“--but he’s impatient.”

“She baited him,” Lion realized. “She made him over-extend so he’d rush himself right out of the arena.”

“Nicely spotted,” Valeera said, walking over to them. “Comfy?”

“I am,” Lion confessed. “Is it..?”

“All I hoped for and more,” Valeera promised. “We’ll share your company, if that seems fair to you.”

Shapes he couldn’t define flitted through his mind, something about sharing, and oddly, tea, paused before his mind’s eye before spinning away into darkness. “It does.”

Broll and Valeera exchanged a long look, before she smiled. “Good. So, now that that’s settled, it’s your turn. Let’s get your sword.”

“I--” Lion looked alarmed. “I couldn’t possibly  _ fight  _ you. Not after you beat Bloodeye.”

“Trickery,” Bloodeye growled. “Cleverness and trickery.”

“Age and wisdom,” Valeera shot back, before focusing on Lion again. “No, we’re not going to duel. Not with you being so new to things. We’re going to start your training. We have spare time before we sleep each night, and I didn’t get you that sword as a decoration. It’s real steel.”

“Go on,” Broll encouraged. “I’ll be here.”

“Meanwhile,  _ someone  _ can help me tidy the camp,” Rehgar said reprovingly. “And that will be all those not busy with teaching.”

Bloodeye swore, and Broll chuckled. Valeera offered Lion a hand and he took it. The elven woman helped him rise, and his eyes widened slightly at the strength of her hand. “More to me than meets the eye,” was all she said as Lion hurried to fetch his sword.

It felt right in his hand, not too heavy or light, and of a good size. Something told him that he should be using a length of wood instead to avoid injury, but there was nothing nearby.

“You already have the right idea about holding it,” Valeera observed, her tone light. “Maybe you’ll remember how to use it too.”

“I might,” Lion said, and watched Valeera draw her own, longer blade. “Didn’t you have daggers before?”

“Oh, I do, but I won’t do much good teaching you without a matching weapon,” she replied. “One has to be flexible when it comes to fighting. Anything can take out an opponent if you’re desperate. An axe, a dagger, a chair…”

“A rock?” Lion guessed. “A sling?”

“Slings are deadly,” Valeera agreed. “And dangerous, especially because they’re easy to access or make. You can pick up a rock from just about anywhere too. Combining something as small as a stone with enough speed can fell any number of great creatures.”

“So stay away from rocks, got it,” Lion said. He held his sword out, and it was as though the voice that had spoken to him when he’d first seen it was back, whispering in his ear.  _ Hold it just so, like that. Keep your guard  _ up,  _ child. Your enemy won’t give you time to daydream. _

“Or avoid angering people inclined to throw them,” Valeera pointed out. “Ducking is also an option.”

“Or tricking them into missing,” Lion suggested, as Valeera brought up her own sword, and squared off with him. She grinned at him in the starlight.

“Exactly like that, yes.”


	7. Early Summer, Year 29

On the morning before they made it to Camp Taurajo, Lion woke up nestled against Broll’s shoulder. He was dozing, as he tended to when dawn broke, and that gave the human man time to look him over. Broll was purple, but it was a kind of pinky purple that he had learned, over the two weeks he’d been in the night elf’s company, meant he had been from the western part of the ancient Kaldorei empire.

_ Pinky-purple from the west, blue-purple from the north, pale-purple from the east since the border stopped not far from the eastern edge of ancient Suramar, and grey-purple from the south,  _ Lion remembered.  _ Though none of that mattered after the Sundering, because there weren’t enough people left to be picky about anything but magic. _

Broll’s hair and beard were long, though he had no mustache. With each slow breath, Broll’s broad chest rose and fell, and his leaf-green hair fluttered in the breeze. Lion watched him, fascinated, nearly enthralled by it. There was something about it that felt familiar, something that even the ever-present ache in his mind couldn’t conceal, that it was  _ right  _ to lay abed, watching his companion sleep, whoever that might be.

This was his second night with Broll, and after the third tomorrow, he’d be curling up with Valeera again for another three nights, or until they finally got to Eldre'thalas, which was sooner rather than later.

Over the horizon, the land was already starting to change.

“Have you got it memorized, or should I lay here a bit longer?” Broll murmured, and Lion ducked his head, flushing. “Good morning, my friend.”

“Morning, Broll,” Lion replied. “I was just…”

“Admiring me in my sleep, I know,” he replied. He brought his big, strong hand up, the joints prominent from work, and touched Lion’s cheek lightly. “When you get your memories back, if you still find me so fascinating...”

Lion nodded. “I know, I remember.”

“Your memory is very good, when it isn’t paining you terribly,” Broll said, and smiled. Lion nodded along with the joke, and slowly peeled himself from his companion’s side. He sat up, and smoothed his hands over his hair, which was somewhat fuzzy in the braids he’d set it in the night before.

As it turned out, both Rehgar  _ and  _ Bloodeye were willing to help him with his hair, though not without some complaining on the latter’s part, and the result was a pair of braids that kept him from looking like someone had stuck his head in a windy canyon. At least, according to Bloodeye. Lion felt like he wasn’t familiar enough with that type of place to be sure.

“To test your memory, tell me what you were told about our destination last night,” Broll said, watching Lion through half-lidded silver eyes, his hands folded over his firm, muscled stomach. Half-caught in his shirt, Lion struggled with it as he thought. “Camp Taurajo is the last place visitors can go before they get to Mulgore. There are big gates that only open for trade with other tauren. Others aren’t allowed to go through it.”

“Indeed,” Broll said as Lion finally managed the shirt, and tugged his hair out from under his collar. “Do you remember why?”

“Mulgore is a sacred place,” Lion said, “Like the Moonglade, you said, and the Sunwell plateau, like Valeera said. It’s not that they don’t like us, because they get plenty of visitors by air, but not through the gates.”

“Yes,” Broll said, and stared at the roof of the tent as Lion quickly changed his smallclothes and pulled on his trousers. Time, and a number of good meals, had made them perch less perilously on his hips, though he still needed the belt. “If we get the chance to take you to Thunder Bluff, you’ll get to see Mulgore. It’s beautiful and green, and stretches for many miles. It’s a sight to see, certainly.”

“I’d like to, if there’s time,” Lion said. “It’s safe now.”

Broll looked towards him, stretching and muttering about the foul burning sky orb. “We will see. Rehgar’s kept to a strict schedule for Bloodeye, but usually, we travel as we will, so long as we’re doing well for supplies. We’ve got a wealth of preserved meat, thanks to his cooking.”

“I really wish this wasn’t necessary,” Lion blurted out. “What if he never pays off the goblins? What if he dies?”

Broll was stunned silent, and Lion busied himself cleaning, collecting his things in the confines of the tent, carefully rolling them and packing them up again.

“We all risk death by living,” Broll said finally, voice quiet. “But some risks  _ are  _ greater than others.”

“He won’t even  _ consider  _ the other options,” Lion said. “If his Warchief is as good as you all say, surely he’d help? Surely he’d care about his people?”

“I’m sure he does,” Broll said slowly, “but that requires action on Bloodeye’s part, and he is proud. Too proud to ask for more help than he has to.” He retrieved his own trousers, and pulled them on. “It’s good that you worry about one of your friends, but there is only so much you can do when your friend says nothing.”

“Pride is stupid,” Lion said, and wiped at his eyes. “There should always be room to ask for help before the worst happens, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

“You’re a good man with a big heart,” Broll said, and reached out, squeezing his shoulder. “I hope you always keep it.” With that, the druid withdrew himself from the tent, and left Lion to finish packing up, a task he’d become greatly accustomed to over his time with the caravan.

It gave him time to dry his eyes, too, so that when he saw Bloodeye’s scowling face, he could leap up into the caravan and take the bundles without much more than a nod.

“Your hair is too light to sit properly,” the orc said by way of greeting. “It fluffs up. I don’t know if there’s enough oil to make it sit flat.”

“The vagaries of being human, I presume,” Rehgar said as he went over the harnesses and wheels. “Good morning, Lion. Did you sleep well?”

Lion considered the mix of dreams, some too indistinct to remember, though none woke him. “Yes. Our… system is working nicely.”

“Good, good,” Rehgar said. “We’ll break our fast and then be on our way. Don’t eat too much. The Longrunners will be keen to feed the small and pathetic looking, so do your best to look hungry.”

“He’s not as skinny as he used to be,” Valeera pointed out, and gave Lion a poke in the ribs as she slipped by on her way to the passenger’s seat. Lion shied from it, and Bloodeye hit him in the face with a bedroll. “Ouch. Bad luck, friend.”

“He’s just grumpy that I’m doing better in my duels with you than he is,” Lion said confidently, picking up the teasing mood. Bloodeye scowled direly.

“You were a warrior in your other life, no doubt of that,” he growled. “You do well enough, for a human.”

“Thank you,” Lion said sincerely, and packed away the rest of the supplies, save what Rehgar needed for their morning meal. This time, it was the last of the sweet bread from their time at the Crossroads, and some of the smoked meat Bloodeye had prepared for them.

They ate while the caravan underwent its last preparations, and Broll offered Lion a smile as he tucked himself into the darkest part of the caravan, and went to sleep in earnest, amongst the bedrolls. Lion made himself comfortable among the rolls and the now-empty echoing crates of supplies, and let his head rest against one of them. It was now habit to listen for the creak-groan of the driver’s seat as Rehgar took his place, clucked to the kodos, and brought them back to the road.

~ * ~

“Look,” called Valeera. “Lion, look.”

Startled from his half-dozing state, Lion sat up, and shifted to the front of the caravan, craning his neck to see between Rehgar’s broad shoulders and Valeera’s slender ones. Immediately, he understood why she’d called to him: they were within sight of some truly marvelous things.

Most obvious was Camp Taurajo itself, marked by an elaborate wooden statue, painted with geometric shapes in red, blue, and gold. Not far from it were a pair of gates with matching artwork, and this, Lion felt confident, was the great gate Broll had spoken of. Past Taurajo were huge, looping briars with thorns as large as a man. They’d seen a few uneven handfuls along the road to get here -- the home of the quillboar, the briars said to be sprouting from the spilled blood of Agamaggan himself -- but these were a far thicker tangle than anything Lion had seen before, and they were on both sides of the road, which seemed pathetic and narrow by comparison.

“We’re almost there,” Lion murmured. “But… doesn’t the land seem to just… drop off a bit?”

Rehgar chuckled. “You’ll see when we get there, and not before. I don’t want to spoil the surprise!”

Lion wasn’t sure that he liked the mischievous look on the shaman’s face, but let it pass for now, his gaze drifting back to their destination. “Is it… will it be alright that I’m with you?”

“The tauren welcome all who come in peace,” Rehgar promised. “You have nothing to fear here.”

“Aren’t  _ those  _ weapons?” Lion asked, pointing past them. As they approached, a number of individuals waved in greeting, and returned to their tasks, some of which involved the creation of long spears with wicked tips of chipped stone or more rarely, steel that glinted in the sunlight. Others were working on arrows, meant to be fired from the huge bows that were being oiled and worked by other tauren, and there were axes and knives as well.

“They are as much tools to hunt as they are weapons to fight centaur,” Valeera pointed out. “Just because you  _ can  _ stab a man to death with a dinner knife, doesn’t mean that’s what it’s  _ for.  _ Mostly, anyway. Improvisation is a hell of a thing.”

“Remind me never to annoy you,” Lion murmured. “Still--”

“I will have Jorn explain things to you,” Rehgar promised. “It’s better for the tauren to explain.”

Lion nodded, but sat back uneasily, frustration prickling at his senses. A hand caught his, and he glanced down at Broll.

“We don’t think you’re a fool,” the night elf murmured, patting him gently. “But it’s good for people to tell their own stories, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” Lion said, gripping his hand. “I just don’t think I like the idea of leaving my sword behind.”

“It won’t be far,” Broll promised him. “And, if you think Valeera won’t keep a knife or three on hand, you don’t know her very well.”

He glanced up at the elven woman’s back. “I don’t know that I do, or at least, not well.”

“She  _ can  _ be secretive, can’t she?” Broll smiled, and sat up, letting Lion help him. “Ugh, daylight again.”

“Every day, I’m afraid,” Lion said, and patted his back. “At least you’ll be in good company.”

“Indeed,” Broll agreed, and the wagon shifted towards the camp. Immediately, several tauren came towards them, one to take the reins from Rehgar and help him down, while two others murmured to the kodos, praising them -- or so it sounded like.

Bloodeye divested himself of his axe, tossing it casually into one of the containers before pulling the tarp aside and jumping down. Broll grumbled as light fell across his sensitive eyes, and made his way out. Lion decided to climb through the front and was greeted by the tauren, who helped Valeera, then himself, down from the caravan before it was led away to be cared for.

These tauren, he realized, were different from those at the Crossroads. Not in a basic sense - they still had curving horns, great muzzles, and three-fingered hands - but they wore different clothing, mostly leather and cloth, with little in the way of beads or paint. Most of them had fur as tan as the golden grasses of the southern Barrens, some dappled with white spots, and still others were so pale as to be white or grey, even when they seemed quite young.

The biggest and most burly of them greeted Rehgar with gentle hand motions and spoke in low, melodious tones. The orc shaman replied in kind, then indicated Lion as he appeared. The tauren nodded once, and switched languages.

“Greetings, human,” she said, her voice low and kind. “We see few of your kind, and even fewer elves.” She nodded her great head towards Valeera and Broll. “But you are welcome here at Camp Taurajo.” The name of the encampment seemed to sit oddly on her tongue, and Lion frowned. “What troubles you?”

“Is that truly what this place is called?” Lion asked, the question bypassing all others. “It sounds different when you say it.”

She stared at him a moment, then laughed deeply. “Ah, you are clever, I see. No, that is not what we call this place in Taurahe. It is a name given for the convenience of our allies. Over time, we have made compromises to communicate with those we value and cherish, but we keep the proper name for ourselves.”

“It’s a secret?”

“No, it is merely difficult, and some are prone to simply lowing and calling it a day,” she said, chuckling. “Fear not, if you use Taurajo, all here will know what you mean.”

“I see,” Lion said, though he didn’t. “I was told there were to be no weapons here, but you have plenty of them. So why can’t we?”

“Ah,” she said. “There are many answers to that question. The first, and most simple, is that you are guests, and we live here. We have the right to make our own rules, as promised by the High Chieftain and confirmed by the Warchief.”

Lion scowled. “I suppose I have to accept that, but still…”

“There are more reasons.” The tauren woman waved. “What you see here are not weapons of war. They are tools to hunt. We are the longrunners, what the orcs call scouts. We travel along this portion of the Barrens, hunting, gathering, and working leather. You will smell it if you stand in the wrong place. While our farming cousins wear beads, we wear what we make ourselves, and then we sell the rest. Mulgore remains unspoiled, and we work with the balance of nature here. My mate can speak to you of it, but perhaps your druid companion has already done so?”

“Not at any length, plains-sister,” Broll said. “How is Jorn?”

“Well enough,” the tauren woman replied, shrugging. “He is resting now, his last solar communion was hard on him. The stars still whirl, Mu’sha chases An’she while Ap’aro follows close behind. He will be pleased to see you once more.”

“And I, pleased to see him.” Broll patted Lion’s shoulder. “This is Sunna, the leader of Camp Taurajo. Her mate is a druid as I am. Though we come from different traditions, we are the same under Cenarius’ guidance.”

“It is so,” Sunna agreed. “Come, make yourselves comfortable. You are welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Rehgar said, smiling warmly. “Your hospitality is always generous, and I am certain there will be more time for questions as they arise.”

Sunna peered down at Lion and he nodded a little, stiffly.

~ * ~

The evening meal at Taurajo was also different from the Crossroads, and Lion found it a bit more to his liking. Rather than the huge tables and endless trays of mash and bread, here the meals were served on low, round tables set in the middle of the primary room of their host’s dwelling. In the very centre of the table was a brazier of wood coals, flames licking merrily along the stone-lined pit. One person, usually Sunna, would feed more coals in, and sometimes sprinkle scented grasses, and the smell wafted into everything, including and especially the chopped pieces of meat that they were supposed to be cooking.

Bloodeye insisted on doing much of the cooking, and distributing the pieces to those who needed them, much to Sunna and Jorn’s amusement.

“We don’t bake nearly as much bread here,” Jorn explained to his guests. “We are a hunting camp, and it takes a great deal of time and work to grow the grain and turn it into flour as our cousins do. We receive our bread from Mulgore, and exchange it for meat. When we gather our bounty from the Earthmother, it usually comes in the form of tubers, wild grasses, or insects.”

“You eat insects?” Bloodeye asked, incredulous. “But there’s so much meat here.”

“One eats what one can,” Jorn said, shrugging. “And there’s nothing like a nice roasted cricket. We also quite like your cactus apples, when they’re in season.”

“They’re good to dig your teeth into,” Bloodeye muttered. “And good to trade to friends.”

“This is good meat,” Valeera said, nibbling at her own food delicately. “And I don’t think I’d mind a cricket. They’re easier to eat than  _ gresht.” _

“It’s all in the teeth,” Sunna noted. “Different teeth for different jobs. Different tables too. The people of the Crossroads eat together because there are so many of them, but they often move on after a few days to continue their travels. We keep the same people here from season to season, but it’s usually families. We’re more private here. We take in those young ones of Mulgore who want to hone their hunting skills and bring that back with them.”

“I suppose it makes sense,” Lion murmured. “You’re a united people, but you aren’t the  _ same  _ people, right?”

“Indeed,” Jorn said, smiling, and shaking his head a little to ward away flies. “We are many clans, united for the first time in many, many generations. We developed many traditions while we were apart, and we hold onto them now. I am a Skyseer, and my mate, a Windtotem. We are united by ceremony and love, but we are distinct by clan and vocation. I help tend to the spiritual needs of those who live here and she, the physical.”

“What he means is that I remind him to eat when he’s too busy dreaming or communing,” Sunna said, and elbowed him affectionately. “And I oversee the training of those who learn to hunt and to fight.”

“So there  _ are  _ weapons here.”

Sunna sighed gustily, causing the flames to waver. “Of course there are.”

“So, why the rule?”

Sunna considered. “Tradition. Many -- even our allies -- bring weapons made from digging into the Earthmother, violating her sacred form. We do not permit mining on our lands at any time, for any reason. When we have metal, it is because the Earthmother gifted it to us, revealing it in windstorms or floods, sometimes earthquakes. We have had many talks with the High Chieftain and his allies about those who come south seeking to exploit the land.”

“Oh,” Lion said, frowning. “That seems… strange.”

“So does digging in the dirt, and yet the dwarves insist on it.” Sunna frowned direly. “That the Earthmother chose to reveal Bael Modan to them is strange too, but we cannot go against her will, no matter how discomforting.”

“Bael Modan?”

“It means ‘red mountain’ in their language,” Jorn said, his muzzle wrinkling with dislike. “They came here a year ago, seeking the ruins of the Titans. They claim them to be the dwarves’ creators and beings to rival the Earthmother. We did not allow them to dig, and it angered them. We were forced to ask for intervention from our allies before the great quake.”

“It shook the land, and the Earthmother fell away from the ruins,” Sunna continued. “We were shocked, but the dwarves were delighted. We investigated at length to make sure they had not caused it, and consulted with the spirits.”

“I remember,” Rehgar said. “The last time I made my circuit, there was still some question. So they didn’t do any blasting?”

“None, which means it was the Earthmother’s will,” Jorn said, shaking his head. “So they are permitted to uncover that which they can already see, so long as they do no more. They are obsessed with the past, those dwarves, and with digging. Always digging.”

“The dwarves believe they are of the earth too,” Valeera noted between bites. “That they were created by the Titans and were placed underground, then awoke as people. Most of them live underground, and they use their affinity for earth to develop better mining and digging techniques, shaping the land for their use.”

“A strange notion, to be sure,” Sunna said. “If they are of the Earthmother, why harm her? Everything we do honours her, including those who farm or build. We’re careful with how much we damage the world around us so that our footprints do not fall so heavily on her.”

“Couldn’t the Earthmother  _ be  _ a Titan?” Lion blurted out, and they stared at him. “I mean…”

“If they’re finding Titan ruins in Kalimdor, so far away from Ironforge, anything is  _ possible,”  _ Valeera said. “But it seems like a stretch to me.”

The conversation gave way to silence, punctuated by chewing, and the occasional belch. Lion couldn’t help but wonder about the dwarves. He knew what they looked like, deep in his heart. He could picture them, short and sturdy, with prominent noses and long, flowing beards and hair. He could see stout women with their hair braided and coiled around their heads wielding great spears and shields, and burly men gripping hammers and beating them against anvils.

Someone was with him in the memory, someone he knew well, but he couldn’t--

The first stab of pain jabbed him behind the eyes with such force that he nearly choked on his mouthful. Hurriedly, he spat it out, which caught everyone’s attention. Lion dropped the skewer he was using and pressed his knuckles against his temples, trying to grind out the terrible agony that had sprouted there.

A hand reached for him, gripping at his wrist and tugging. He managed to look up, expecting it to be Broll or Valeera, but it was neither. It was Bloodeye.

“Come on,” he said, voice as soft as Lion had ever heard it. “Come  _ on.” _

Lion rose, and Bloodeye all but pulled him out of the large wooden dwelling. It was well past sunset, and the night was dark, with traces of clouds obscuring much of the sky, though the moons were swelling up to their fullness, making Lion’s eyes water.

“Look at me,” Bloodeye growled, and Lion did. As always, the gladiator hopeful wore little, mostly a leather harness that showed off large, rippling muscles that the orc oiled daily. His jaw, bare of the coarse-dark hair that was elsewhere on his person, was clenched and twitching. “Do you see me?”

“I… I see you,” Lion said, though the words hurt to say. He felt like there was a monster inside his head, clawing to escape. He could only meet Bloodeye’s gaze briefly before dropping it down, and trying to squeeze his head again. Bloodeye gripped his wrists and stopped him. “It hurts.”

“It will pass,” he growled, and released Lion. “Don’t hit yourself. Hit me instead.”

“What? I couldn’t--”

“Do it,” the orc snapped and Lion’s hands came up by reflex and he punched Bloodeye in the pectoral. He was hard and unyielding, and this close, smelled of woodsmoke and herbs. “Again.”

With the fresh spike of pain, Lion hit him again. When the pounding of the blood in his ears became too much, he struck out at Bloodeye’s stomach, at his chest, at anywhere he could reach easily. Sometimes, he struck as hard as he could, and this produced a grunt of discomfort, while other times he flailed, kitten-weak, until the pain receded into its dull, ever-present state. Lion leaned against Bloodeye, exhausted and more than a little sick.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Bloodeye said, winding his arms around Lion and holding him carefully, stroking big, strong fingers over Lion’s braided hair. “I don’t share my bedroll with any but women.”

Lion nodded a little, and tried not to ram his nose into the harness. “Thank you anyway. Why...?”

“Someone hurt you very badly, and when I find them, I will rip their head off,” Bloodeye growled. “But it isn’t your fault. It isn’t your mind’s fault. Don’t punish it.”

_ I wish I could believe that,  _ Lion thought, but nodded again. “Did you ever tell your friend that? The one with amnesia?”

Bloodeye stiffened a fraction, then relaxed, stroking his hair again. “Sometimes. I don’t think he’ll ever remember. I hated you humans for it for a long time. I hated him. I hated myself.”

“Why yourself?”

“I wasn’t strong enough to stop them,” Bloodeye admitted. “I couldn’t pull the guards from him in time to save his mind, and he was trying to protect the little ones. He was brave and now he’s gone. They killed him.”

“He’s still alive,” Lion said softly, and gripped at him. “You can still be his friend. You can still repay that debt.”

“With gold, I can,” Bloodeye replied, and shook his head a little. “I won’t be a gladiator forever. I’ll go back to Durotar and find Marek again. Enough gold will find us a healer who can fix his mind. Just as we’ll find a way to help you.”

Lion wasn’t as sure, but all he could say, from the bottom of his heart, was, “Thank you.”

Bloodeye grunted. “You’re alright, for a human. Come, let’s enjoy the night air, and I want to show you something.”

Lion released him with some reluctance. “Oh?”

“Well, first of all, someone needs to teach you how to punch like a warrior and not like a child.”

~ * ~

There was a day’s worth of travel between Camp Taurajo and what Lion would learn was called the Great Lift. During that time, they traveled past the primary home of the quillboar, the Razorfen. From a distance, the huge, twisting briars had seemed small, half-hidden as they were in shadow. Up close, they had been enormous, though he’d seen few of the boar-people as they passed by, extremely careful to remain on the road.

There was something of a pall that hung over the Razorfen, and that, if anyone asked him of it later, was Lion’s reason for gasping audibly when they rode clear of it and beheld the Thousand Needles for the first time.

The Barrens simply stopped after a while. The land gave way to sky so abruptly it was as though someone had sliced it with a razor and let it tumble downwards. A dizzying distance below, there were huge rock formations, tall and narrow with sandy tips, and dusty, rusting ground.

“What… what happened here?” Lion asked wonderingly, and at first, neither Broll nor Valeera could answer him, as they too were left breathless by the sight.

“This is usually the furthest south I go,” Rehgar remarked. “I stop at the Cliff’s Edge encampment and turn back north. Why don’t we go and ask?”

“People live here?” Lion asked, incredulous. “How?”

“One day at a time, usually,” Rehgar said, and Bloodeye chuckled. “Come, let’s go visit the longrunners.”

Like those of Camp Taurajo, these tauren were dressed in leather and hide, and had the look of hunters. Unlike the hunter camp, they ran a large stable. There were kodos here of various shades, chewing on fodder and sometimes wandering about their enclosure, while others prefered the shade of the carefully constructed wood and straw structure that housed them. In a different stable, on the other side of the road, were huge wolves.

Lion’s eyes widened, and he pointed. “Why are those here?”

“Those are worgs,” Rehgar said, raising his hand in greeting to the tauren. “Orc use them as riding animals, rather than beasts of burden like kodos. They are similar to wolves in many ways, but worgs are much larger, which is why they’re suitable for riding. Kodo and worgs don’t get along, owing to the natural enmity between predator and prey. The longrunners tend to mounts here, and supply them for those who travel along the road. No one needs to harm their mounts when new ones are in fresh supply.”

“That’s all very fascinating,” Bloodeye growled. “But how the hell are we going to convince  _ our  _ kodos to go all the way down  _ there?” _

Rehgar grinned. “Wait and see.”

Bloodeye rolled his eyes and settled back, grumbling. As Rehgar brought the caravan to a halt, one of the longrunners came to greet them.

“Hello, Karus,” Rehgar said, unwinding the reins and offering his hand to the tauren, who clasped his wrist in greetings. “My journey is a bit longer this time. We need to go to Feralas. Do you think we can do it?”

“Of course!” Karus replied, and looked over the caravan’s occupants. “Quite a varied sack of people you have here.”

“Mixed bag,” Rehgar corrected, and nodded. “As always, I pick up waifs and strays, some more waifish than others.”

“I’ve put on a stone of weight,” Lion grumbled, much in the same tone Bloodeye had used. “I’m not a waif any more.”

Karus chuckled, a chugging sound like water over stone. “I believe you, though you’re all a bit small to me, save for the night brother.” He nodded to Broll, who nodded back. “Come, let’s get you moving. Lorak!”

Another of the longrunners loped over, kicking up dust with his great hooves. Carefully, the caravan’s occupants climbed down, and were gently but firmly shooed aside. With a speed that shamed Lion and his friends, the kodos were unharnessed and led towards the enclosure, the prior residents snorting a few times and then settling back to eating. Then the longrunners expertly ran their hands along the great yoke that had laid over the kodos’ shoulders and detached the whole thing from the caravan, to Lion’s alarm.

“What are they doing?” he whispered to Broll. “Don’t we need that?”

“It’s not going far,” the druid promised. “Watch. They’re experts.”

The yoke was examined for damage and pronounced to be in good shape, and then it was lifted and placed inside the caravan, which looked decidedly forlorn, and not unlike a small, dust-covered house.

“Bring the blocks,” Karus said, and Lorak departed swiftly, returning with two more longrunners, bringing their numbers up to four. Each longrunner carried a heavy block of wood the way Lion or Bloodeye would carry a crate. The blocks were pushed under the caravan, and one by one, the caravan’s wheels were removed, and these too were checked for damage and then placed inside the caravan, which was then sealed up with care.

_ I’m not even sure what’s going on,  _ Lion thought, dazed.  _ Now we can’t move the caravan at all. _

One of the longrunners hurried back to the cliff and pulled on a cord. A bell rang out, echoing over the great, gaping chasm of the Thousand Needles. Moments later, something began to move and groan.

“We move,” Karus barked out, and the longrunner returned. Each tauren stood where the wheels had been and lifted the caravan from the blocks, muscles straining, and Lion gasped in wonder again at their strength.

Slowly, but with great determination, they carried the caravan towards the edge of the cliff. By the time they reached the sheer face, the elevator had arrived. It was a huge thing, constructed almost entirely of wood, save for the pulleys and the ropes that brought it up and down. The tauren set the caravan -- which was somehow  _ smaller  _ than the Lift’s platform -- down carefully, and then rang the bell again.

“Incredible,” Lion whispered. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“No,” Broll said, and Valeera shook her head, equally amazed. “The tauren are a gentle people. Wise, kind, very traditional and devoted to the Earthmother, but never forget that they’re brilliant engineers as well, finding ways of doing things without forged metal for the most part. There are three lifts like this one in Thunder Bluff, one for each of the three great mesas, and the bridges! They have huge rope bridges that support incredible weight. Never underestimate them.”

Lion watched the longrunners slapping each on the back and laughing at their hard work, and nodded. “Never.”

“Well, this is all very well and good,” Bloodeye grumbled, concealing his own wonder with gruffness. “But how are  _ we  _ to get down?”

“Well, there is a footpath,” Karus said, pointing past the stables. “It’s very narrow, but those who don’t wish to use the Lift to descend, or don’t wish to leave their mount with us, use it.”

“Wait,” Lion broke in.  _ “We  _ get to ride the Lift too?”

“Oh yes,” Karus said, muzzle wrinkling into a smile. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know--”

“Yes,” Lion said, eyes shining. “More than  _ anything.” _


	8. Early Summer, Year 29

Thousand Needles was even more impressive from the ground. The stone formations thrust upwards, reaching for the sky, and the sight of them was almost enough to make Lion forget that he had been of a height with them when he’d been at the Lift’s camp. There was a second encampment at the bottom of the Lift, with another four longrunners performing the same duty in reverse -- providing mounts and beasts of burden, lifting the caravan and unpacking it -- all the while making good-natured jokes at their counterparts’ expense.

“There’s another encampment on the other side of the Needles,” one of them told Lion, smiling kindly at his astonishment. “Though it’s manned primarily by our allies, orcs and trolls, since they care far more for the desert than we do.”

“There’s a desert?” Lion asked. If he focused, he could imagine golden sands gleaming in the sunlight, heat-shimmer making it look almost like water. “And there are people who live there?”

“Oh yes,” the longrunner -- Mirra -- said, and pointed with a three-fingered hand. “If you can make it past the centaur, there’s a road that passes all the way through the Needles. Right on the edge is the outpost, with camels instead of kodos, and worgs who live on scorpid meat and vulture. Not far from there you enter the Mirage Flats, part of the desert that covers the southeastern part of Kalimdor. The goblins have a great racetrack there where they show off the speed of their ramshackle vehicles and bet on them for gold and favours.” She snorted and tossed her head.

“That’s  _ incredible,  _ though we won’t be going that way,” Lion said. “We’re going to Eldre’thalas.”

“Indeed,” Mirra said. “So, let me tell you what you will miss. After the racetrack there’s a narrow pass into another area called Tanaris. That is the home of the Steamwheedle Cartel. They have a very large port there, named after them, that sends out ships into the South Seas. Some go to Theramore, others to Ratchet, many to Kezan, the home of the goblins, while others visit Tel Abim, and even to the human lands, like Stranglethorn and Stormwind.”

Lion’s eyes watered with the sudden stab of pain -- the names were familiar, and he’d seen many of those places on the map in the Crossroads -- but nodded, determined to hear more. “Who else? Why do the goblins live in the desert?”

“The goblins claim a liquid wealth in the desert,” Mirra said, frowning now. “They dig wells and sell the water they find, much to the dislike of the natives there, the Tanari. They are human, like you, or half-humans. There are also trolls, the Farraki, who have lived in the desert for as long as the tauren have lived on the plains.”

“I thought the only humans that lived in Kalimdor were the ones from T-theramore?” Lion said, stuttering over the name with the fresh stab of pain. “How are there humans in Tanaris?”

Mirra laughed in amusement. “Do you think your people simply sat around and waited until wars forced them to migrate? No, the goblins have been in Kalimdor for  _ centuries.  _ Their great ships traveled to and from the south regularly, and they took on many different crew members, including the humans native to Stranglethorn. Some went home, but many stayed in the desert. They live and work with all of the others, so many so that the goblins founded  _ another  _ city in Tanaris, their metropolis, Gadgetzan.”

“Incredible,” Lion said. “What’s it like?”

“Those who travel from it say that it is a large city, domed to keep out the worst of the sun. There are people of all kinds who live there, working and buying and selling and gambling. Killing is not uncommon, but neither are great bodyguards who break knuckles or crack horns when needed. There are three great organizations that compete with each other fiercely for power and control, balanced by the city’s leader, Marin Noggenfogger. I do not think that I would like to meet him, oh no.”

“Neither do I,” Lion murmured. “Who else lives there? The desert must be very large?”

“There is--” Mirra cut off abruptly, and froze, as though suspended in amber. Lion waited for her to speak again, and he felt fear rise in his chest.

_ Did I ask the wrong question? Is it a secret? How can it be with so many people living there? I-- _

“Pirates, I think,” she said finally. “The Bloodsail. There are ruins in the south and west of the desert, and a path that leads to a place of myth. Un’Goro Crater.”

“...are you alright?” Lion asked, worried. “You just… stopped.”

“Did I?” Mirra asked, and shook her head vigorously, shaking up dust. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“I just wanted to know that you’re alright,” Lion assured her. “So, what’s in--”

“Waif!” Bloodeye bellowed. “We’re leaving, quit being slow! Eldre’thalas won’t wait!”

“I have a  _ name,”  _ Lion called back, and offered Mirra a smile. “I have to go. Thank you so much for telling me more of Kalimdor. You know so much.”

“Ah, but I know little of the north,” Mirra said. “Perhaps when you return, you can tell me more of it.”

“I’ll try,” Lion promised. “Goodbye.”

With that, Lion hastened towards the caravan. Broll and Valeera pulled him inside and sealed the back of the caravan up behind him. Bloodeye was already sitting in the passenger’s seat, eager to be going. Rehgar carefully counted out a generous fee to the longrunners from his purse, and then tucked it away before climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Caravan… we go!”

~ * ~

The first Kaldorei outpost was several day’s travel west of the Great Lift, and here was another place of genuine wonder to Lion: at the edge of the Thousand Needles there was something of a slope, though the section wide enough for caravans had been carefully worked and shaped so the kodos could climb it with only minor complaints. At the top of the slope was a flat, wide area that led towards a series of ornate wooden buildings.

Rather than the browns and reds of the orc buildings, or the tan, wood, and brightly painted tauren dwellings, these ones were stained pink-purple, with elegant sloping roofs and the carved patterns of wings, an owl’s face glaring out at them from the middle.

“Wake me when it’s over,” Broll said, and slumped into the bedrolls.

“We will,” Valeera promised, and patted his shoulder. Lion copied the motion and peered out the front of the caravan. A pair of Kaldorei had come out to meet Rehgar, and one of them spoke to him, while the other glared at Bloodeye, her wicked-looking polearm tight in her grip.

“We are traveling to Eldre’thalas,” Rehgar said, keeping his voice low and calm. “We bring no weapons except for personal arms. My companion wishes to join the gladiators there.”

“It is not against the rules,” the Kaldorei said stiffly. “But I advise against it. The Highborne are not to be trusted. Nor are-- others.”

“I’m certain that Ranger-General Feathermoon takes pride in the caution of her Sentinels,” Rehgar said soothingly. “But we know the stories well. We will take our chances in the city. Is there a need for an inspection?”

Broll stiffened behind Lion, and he offered the druid his hand to grip tightly.

“No,” the Sentinel said finally, as though it were being dragged out of her. “You are known to us, your mission and your purpose. You may pass.”

“Thank you,” Rehgar said, sincerity in his words. “We will see you again in a week’s time, or perhaps a little longer, when we leave.”

She nodded once and gestured sharply to her companion. They exchanged a few, brief words in their own language before stepping back. Lion craned his neck around, catching a glimpse of a large pond with glowing water, framed by ornately carved stone before the kodos took them back onto a proper road.

“What were they saying, Broll?” Bloodeye growled in an undertone. “Was it about me?”

“They don’t like orcs,” Broll said tiredly, and sat up again. “I don’t see why, what’s a little god-killing between heroes of Hyjal?”

“Should I ask?” Lion asked Valeera, voice soft.

“I’m sure we’ll hear all about it when we eat next,” the elven woman replied, though she didn’t seem surprised by it.

Bloodeye spat into the trees in reply, demonstrating what he thought of it.

The road was well-maintained here, and rather than hard-packed dirt, it was stone, occasionally interrupted by carefully placed logs, split in half and sanded flat before being placed in the ground to smooth it. Every hundred yards, there was a waystone of some kind, with a glowing, carved face and feathered markers, pointing different ways through the forest.

It was something of a surprise, all things considered, when they arrived at another tauren village, as different from Taurajo as the hunting outpost had been from the Crossroads. Here, the buildings were made of dark wood, and in some cases, living trees, as thick, dark-green leaves served to reinforce the rooftops. Unlike most of the structures Lion had seen previously, these ones were multi-tiered with ramps leading from one section to the next. There was a totem, as large as impressive as any of the Needles, looming over them from one hillside.

“This is Camp Mojache,” Rehgar proclaimed. “We will need to obtain some more supplies, as well as gifts for the Prince.”

“Mo- _ ja _ -che?” Lion repeated, and Broll shook his head.

“Mo- _ ha _ -ve,” the druid corrected. “Like tor- _ a _ -ho. It’s a--”

“Vagary of language,” Lion finished. “I understand, but what  _ is  _ this place? Why do we need gifts?”

“The leader of Eldre’thalas, Prince Tortheldrin, is an… important individual, and as such, he assures the proper reverence of his visitors by requiring them to bring tokens of appreciation,” Rehgar said carefully. “This is a place of reflection, teaching, and worship, but also a place of commerce.”

“Translation?” Bloodeye asked, bored.

“Tortheldrin is a self-important ass who demands people bribe him when they arrive,” Broll said. “And the tauren here are well-aware of that fact, so they sell trinkets for those who aren’t prepared.”

“Thank you, my dear friend,” Rehgar said, rolling his eyes while Bloodeye chuckled. “Go shopping while I purchase supplies and consult with the Sages.”

“Sages?” Lion wondered, already moving to unfasten the ties of the caravan so he could jump down. There was far less dust here, and he took the time to brush himself off. Valeera slipped out behind him, but Broll didn’t move. “Not coming?”

“No,” Broll replied, and Lion hesitated, caught between wanting to explore and staying behind to keep his friend company. “Get me something sparkly, will you?”

_ That seems like permission enough.  _ “Will do.” Lion pushed the back of the caravan back up, and then turned to look around. As expected, tauren were coming to greet them, to lead the caravan somewhere more out of the way so it could be loaded, though the whole village seemed cramped, or at least, the buildings seemed to press against one another. The shade of the trees, so thick to the ground here, seemed as though it should keep them cooler, but it was hot this far south, and the trees seemed to soak up the moisture in the air as best they could, leaving those without foliage or bark to sweat.

Like their cousins further north, these tauren wore little metal, mostly cloth and treated wood that seemed to gleam in the waylights that lit the way through Mojache. Most of them had darker fur -- easy to spot when they wore so little -- black or dark grey, dappled with white or light grey. In the shadow of the forest, some of them seemed to disappear, were it not for the rattling of strings upon strings of wooden beads some of them wore, whisper-clicking as they moved.

Lion was so full of wonder at the sight of new things that he almost missed the lake entirely. He had been trailing after one of the tauren, not wanting to disturb his circuit, when the man turned down a hill. Lion followed, watching his footing on the cut wood steps, and caught sight of the water.

“A visitor,” the tauren said in Common, and indicated the water. “Wildwind Lake. Sit. Rest. Think.”

“Thank you,” Lion replied, pronouncing the words in Taurahe carefully. “I will sit.”

The tauren chuckled, pleased by his efforts, and continued along the lakeshore. It was meant for visitors, he could see, with small shrines to the Earthmother -- and something else -- set against large, uneven rocks. Lion found an uneven one to sit at, and stared into the water.

He was a few days without shaving, and the hair on his chin and cheeks was coarse and dark. His efforts with Rehgar’s borrowed razor were rarely entirely successful, and he could see healing cuts on his skin. His hair, lighter than his protobeard, was braided into two tails, one resting over each shoulder. His eyes, blue and wavering in the water, seemed tired and haunted.

_ I’m not sure why, I slept quite well,  _ he thought.  _ I always do when I have someone to stay with, and the others have been kind enough not to leave me alone. When Valeera and Broll are busy, Rehgar is kind enough to host me for the night, though he smells odd at times. _

Perhaps it was the attempts at remembering that creased the skin around his eyes, or when he tried  _ not  _ to remember and focus on the moments at hand -- sword practice with Valeera, Rehgar’s stories, Bloodeye’s grumpy efforts at teaching him how to prepare meat or Brolll’s quiet, comforting presence -- and they felt familiar but incomplete, as though he was missing something crucial, something fundamental to his existence.

_ Maybe someone can help me,  _ he mused as he caught sight of some of the fish swimming around, bobbing up to catch an insect on the water’s surface and disappearing into the semi-darkness.  _ One of the sages, or that Prince, if I find him a nice enough gift. Maybe even someone from the human settlement. I know Valeera said she met Rehgar in Ratchet, and the goblins are friends with the humans. Or-- _

Lost as he was in his own thoughts, he barely noticed when his reflection in the water changed. Not a man, but a woman, with bright blue eyes and blonde hair, her pale face rounded and open, kindly. She seemed to reach towards him, even as she whispered:

_ Join me in death. You were not meant to live this long, murderer. _

Lion cried out in fear, and threw himself back. He overbalanced and struck his head hard on the ground, the impact of one of the wooden steps creating an explosion of pain behind his eyes.

“No… no…” he whispered as the water rippled, and the woman began to rise from the water, dripping and draped in plants. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean--”

_ You can’t hide from me forever…  _ she hissed.  _ You will pay. You will-- _

The pain in his head, only building from the blow, blacked his vision, and he fell unconscious as a dark shape loomed over him, speaking nothing but nonsense.

~ * ~

“You know, if you didn’t  _ want  _ to go shopping, you could have told me.”

Lion’s eyes slit open, and caught sight of Broll’s green beard. “I don’t think I found anything shiny, unless water counts.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Broll assured him. “What happened?”

“I was sitting by the lake,” Lion said. “Did you know there was a lake?”

“There was a bridge over it when we came in, so yes,” he replied. He offered Lion his hand, and the human took it, clinging to him tightly. “You didn’t notice?”

“No, I… was too busy looking at everything else,” Lion confessed. “But I went to the lake. There were fish, and insects, and I saw myself in the water, and then…”

“Sage Palerunner said you greeted him, sat down for a little while, then fell and started screaming.”

“I saw her again. My wife.” Lion swallowed heavily, and his head throbbed. “She was coming to get me, to kill me. She said I didn’t deserve to live.”

“We know that’s not true,” Broll said. “Because you do. Few ever truly  _ deserve  _ to die, and none of those people are you. Can you sit up?”

“With help,” Lion said, and pushed himself up with his free hand. Immediately, Broll put an arm around him, embracing him. “Thank you.”

“I’ve got you,” Broll murmured. “Just sit a moment. You need to see a healer.”

“That’s what I was thinking of just before all this happened,” Lion said. “I’d almost gotten used to the headaches, but then this…”

“We’ll find a way to help you, I promise,” Broll said. “For now, if you’re feeling up to it, there’s soup.”

“Soup?” Lion repeated. “Have we had soup before?”

“No, and this is of significance,” Broll said. “And not just ‘because it’s for sick people’.”

“Bloodeye?” Lion forced himself to release Broll, and shuffled off the side of the bed. It was a high platform, meant for bigger occupants, the blanket thin and meant for comfort rather than true warmth.

“Bloodeye,” Broll confirmed. Once Lion had made it off the bed, Broll helped him into his boots, and led him outside.

True night had come swiftly, the wealth of trees blotting out the horizon, and Mojache was lit by countless lamps hanging from the buildings. Lion made a soft noise as he saw decorations hanging from many of the buildings, waving in the wind. Some seemed like nothing but long bars that knocked against one another, making a clicking, almost musical sound, while others appeared to be circles of wood with yarn strung between them in patterns like a spiderweb.

“Those are wind chimes,” Broll said, pointing them out. “These ones are made of wood, but others are made of metal, even porcelain. And those are dreamcatchers. They don’t  _ exactly  _ catch dreams, but they represent the story of how the tauren helped Elune catch Malorne.”

“They’re nice,” Lion murmured. “But why ‘dream’ catchers?”

“Because people like to think there’s a way to trap good dreams or keep out bad ones,” Broll said, sighing. “And sometimes, faith is more important than truth.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, and you’ve got headaches enough without my business adding to it.” Broll patted his hand. “Come.”

Lion frowned, but walked with him as Broll led him to one of the other homes. Rehgar and the others were seated with their host, and all three looked up with expressions of relief when the pair of them arrived.

“Welcome,” said the seated tauren. “I am saddened to hear of your illness.”

“I’m… fine,” Lion said. “Or I’m well enough to eat. I’ve heard we’re having soup?”

“It’s more of a stew, but yes,” the tauren said. “I am Sage Korolusk, the leader of this community. I heard you met my mate by the lake. He is called Palerunner.”

Lion nodded, and sat carefully on one of the wooden chairs -- more stump than seat -- next to Valeera. “I did, and I’m sorry I disturbed his meditation.”

“It is not for the ill to apologize,” Korolusk said, dismissing it with a wave. “You are all welcome here. It is good to have visitors that aren’t the ogres or the gnolls.”

“Or… elves?” Lion guessed, and the tauren snorted. “They didn’t seem very friendly.”

“There is something in this place that irritates them,” Korolusk said. “They start out good-humoured enough, but by the end of their stint of guard duty, they are as sour as summer sap. They travel through here on the way from their stronghold on the far western shore and back again. It’s quite puzzling.”

“Maybe it’s the Highborne,” Broll suggested, sitting on Lion’s other side. “Knowing that they’re here.”

“Perhaps, but they have been here longer than this village has stood,” Korolusk said. “Longer than the fortress on the shore, longer than the ogre attacks. It seems strange to me that they would find it so irritating now.”

“Some people are just assholes,” Bloodeye grumbled, and Rehgar snorted hard. “What?”

“Nothing,” Rehgar said. “Korolusk, what of the soup?”

“Ah, yes,” the tauren said and rose, calling out to his mate, “Is it ready?”

“Almost,” Palerunner called back. “Just a few minutes longer. It’s simmering.”

“It’s more of a stew,” Korolusk began. “You’ve met our cousins over the course of your travels and we all have different methods of feeding ourselves based on our needs and what’s on hand. Here, there’s plenty of game, but limited space for farming, not unlike the Kaldorei of the far north. Rather than damage the forest, we create our own spaces and use the forest’s bounty around us.”

“What does that have to do with soup?” Bloodeye grumped. “Soup is just as bad as porridge, it’s for the sick and the weak. It doesn’t keep your teeth strong.”

“Ah, but that’s why it’s more of a stew,” Korolusk said, and paused as Palerunner called out. “Come, come, you will see.”

One by one, the guests rose, and Lion hurried close behind Valeera through one of the long, beaded curtains that the tauren used instead of doors. The smell that had been wafting through the air, teasing him, hit him full force and he gasped in wonder. The kitchen, undoubtedly small and modest to the tauren, was filled with the scent of herb-roasted meat. The cauldron that sat on the fire was immense, made of dark metal and glowing red at the bottom.

“It’s been in my family for many generations,” Korolusk said conversationally. “A thing of great beauty.”

“Which is why you have  _ me  _ use it half the time,” Palerunner said fondly, and nodded to Lion. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Lion replied. “Hungry.”

“Good, because we’ve made a great deal of food.” Apprehensive, remembering the incident at the lake, Lion peered into the cauldron. There was no vision, no whisper of anger and hate, but there was meat, huge chunks of it, bobbing lightly in the dark brown broth. Scattered within were also chunks of something else, in orange and brown and pale yellow.

“Bear, mostly,” Palerunner said proudly. “They can be quite tricky to take down, and you have to cook it thoroughly just to be safe, but it’s quite delicious.”

Broll flinched, and Lion glanced up at him. “Are you--”

“--carrots, potatoes, and other root vegetables,” Palerunner concluded. “All chopped and left to cook in water that soaks up the juices. We keep it, of course, and the new is added to the old. We add herbs as necessary.”

“But how  _ tough  _ is it?” Bloodeye demanded. “How much tearing is there?”

“You will just have to see,” Palerunner said. “Here, take these bowls and help yourselves.”

As they did, Broll hung back, and Lion looked at him, worried. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly. “You’re obviously worried about something.”

“I can’t eat this,” Broll replied, lips stiff. “I’ll get something from the caravan.”

“You could just ask for something else, couldn’t you?” Lion said. “Should I go with you?”

“No,” Broll said. “It’s a personal issue. You need to eat.”

“I  _ want  _ to help you, just like you helped me,” Lion said, and looked up at him, resting the other hand on Broll’s wrist. The night elf stared down at him, and lowered his head. For a moment, Lion wondered if they would kiss, but Broll rested his forehead against Lion’s, and drew in a shaking breath.

“I am a druid,” Broll said. “You know this. I mastered shapeshifting a long time ago, at least so I thought. For a time that I must conclude was long one, I was trapped in bear form, mind lost in the Dream.”

“Do you think… do you think they killed a druid?” Lion whispered, horrified. “Even by accident?”

“No,” Broll said, and sighed heavily, breath tickling against Lion’s skin. “You don’t stay a bear when killed, and the tauren have been druids as long as the Kaldorei have. Longer. They would know. I know that this food is safe, but the idea of eating it still revolts me. I want you to have this meal with the others and then tell me about it. Tell me how it tasted and if you liked it. Will you do that for me?”

Lion swallowed heavily, but nodded, though it was more of a half-nuzzle. “I will, Broll. I promise.”

“Good,” he said, and drew back. “Now go on.”

Lion nodded to him and retrieved his bowl of stew. Palerunner offered him a kindly smile to go along with the soup.

“Some find sadness or anger in mundane things,” he said. “It is no fault of what they see, but rather of memories so deeply upsetting that seeing something that reminds them of it sends them into a spiral of emotion. It was not our intent to upset your friend and we are deeply saddened.”

“He knows that,” Lion said. “He needs time to recover. I hadn’t thought… he seems so strong all the time. He has memories that pain him too.”

“We all do, at one time or another,” Palerunner said, and gently rubbed a finger along his wrist. A white scar cut along his forearm several times. “But if we draw strength from others, they will catch us when we fall.”

Lion touched his hand in sympathy, and then turned, taking his bowl into the other room. Valeera glanced up from her soup -- the process she had chosen for eating seemed to consist of delicate sips -- and cocked her head.

“Is Broll not with you?” she asked softly, and Lion shook his head.

“He doesn’t feel well, he’s eating at the caravan,” he replied. “He wants us to eat, though.”

“Ah,” Valeera replied. “Try it, it’s nice. Richer than I care for, but nice.”

Lion nodded, and forced his worry back. He stirred the murky brown liquid and then took a spoonful. His eyes widened as the flavours hit his tongue in quick succession. He could certainly taste the meat, rich and very red, but also the blend of vegetables within, savoury with herbs. The meat was not quite soft, more distinctly chewy, and came apart with effort enough that even Bloodeye seemed pleased.

“It’s definitely good,” Lion murmured. “Though it reminds me of something. I can’t think what.”

“Bear isn’t exactly common eating,” Valeera noted. “There weren’t even bears  _ in  _ Quel’thalas. Springpaws and plenty of hawkstriders, the deer… but no bears.”

“Should we worry about being attacked?” Lion asked, worried. “If there are so many here, that is.”

“No,” Korolusk said between spoonfuls. “This was an unusual case. We normally eat venison. I  suspect something frightened the bear towards our hunters. Which is strange in and of itself.”

“Why?” Lion asked, curious. “What could have done it?”

“Not much,” Korolusk said, muzzle wrinkling in thought. “Bears are very large, what we call apex predators. Other creatures do not hunt them, though they themselves have a varied diet of both meat and vegetables, sometimes even honey or berries. They can be dissuaded by noise, but they are rarely fearful. It might have been something at the pavilion.”

“Lariss Pavilion,” Palerunner clarified at their confused expressions. “While the Highborne mostly remain within their city, they have an outbuilding that they use as a base to gather things from the forest when necessary. Not often, I believe, but sometimes. We’re not sure how they manage to get out there without being seen. Perhaps they too retain the skills of silent forest walking.”

“It could be magic,” Valeera said, but her expression was curious. “How far is this building, did you say?”

“Not far, an hour’s travel through the forest. It’s hard to miss, it’s made of pale stone, like the ghost of a home.” Korolusk tossed his head, his dark fur gleaming in the lamplight. “You find it interesting?”

“Curious,” Valeera corrected. “My people are the ancient descendants of exiled Highborne. I have an interest in the city here.”

“I don’t believe the Highborne care for questions,” Korolusk said. “Though a fine present or two is worthwhile.”

“I already have that covered, I promise,” Valeera assured him, and Lion frowned.

“Eat,” Bloodeye grumped. “Or I will eat for you.”

“There’s more in the kitchen,” Palerunner chided. “Behave.”

“Yes, Sage,” Bloodeye grumbled, and Lion couldn’t help but laugh.

~ * ~

When bedtime came, Lion stood in his smallclothes, thinking hard. It was Valeera’s turn to host him in her bedroll so he could curl up to her small, lithe form and feel protected and safe, but Broll’s behaviour had not left his thoughts.

_ If we draw strength from others, they will catch us when we fall.  _ Lion considered Palerunner’s words. “Valeera.”

“Hm?” The elven woman was still dressed. She caught sight of him and seemed to wince. “Oh, right. I’ll be there in just a minute.”

“I’m glad, but also, there’s something I wanted to ask of you,” Lion said. “Broll wasn’t… he was upset earlier. I wanted to comfort him.”

“Well, the world certainly won’t end if we change the schedule a little,” Valeera said, smiling. “You should go to him if you think it will help.”

“I  _ hope  _ it will,” Lion said. “But not just me. I was thinking we could both go. We both need the support, and if you were willing…”

“It’s going to be crowded…” Valeera considered. “Alright. Let’s go find Broll.”

Lion smiled, and collected up his clothes. They had been offered a place indoors, but Broll had remained with the caravan, and that was where they found the druid.

In the night air, the windchimes clunked and clicked to keep away predators and the tauren who wandered about, checking the lamps, gave them knowing looks.

“Broll,” Lion called. “It’s me. Us.”

“Us?” the druid answered. “Ah, you brought Valeera.”

“Make room, you purple giant,” Valeera said, climbing into the caravan and helping Lion inside. “We’re bunking with you tonight.”

“Both of you?” Broll said, raising an eyebrow. He sat up, and shifted some of the crates around, and unfastened a second bedroll while Valeera stripped down. “What’s the occasion?”

“Friendship,” Lion said firmly. “You’ve been taking such good care of me, it’s time for me to take  care of you.”

Broll smiled, and drew Lion into his arms for a hug. “You’re a good friend.”

“Wait until he burps herbs in your face,” Valeera grumbled as they sorted themselves out among blankets and bedrolls. “It’s only funny the first time.”

“I  _ said  _ I was sorry,” Lion mumbled, curled against Broll’s side. Valeera slipped in behind him, putting an arm around his waist. “Bloodeye was the one who kept it going.”

Broll laughed softly as Lion closed his eyes, and let the pain from earlier in the day slip below the surface of his mind, like the fish in the lake.


	9. High Summer, Year 29

The road past Mojache was well-kept, the path paved with stones, uneven in size but pressed into the ground to make it largely flat. The kodos sniffed distrustfully at the trees and the shadows that clung to them like skirts, concealing potential predators in their imaginations but mostly insects and vermin in truth.

To Lion, who was sitting next to Rehgar as the caravan trundled towards its destination, it reminded him of his own mind, with blinking, winking lights peering out from the darkness.

“I have only been this way a very few times,” Rehgar said quietly. “It’s a difficult journey, but with any luck, this will be over and done with quickly, then we can be on our way.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m new to this,” Lion said quietly, twirling a blade of grass around his fingers idly, “but things seem to have gone very smoothly. Everyone was welcoming and kind, the hunting was done quickly, and nothing broke or was delayed. That seems like an easy journey.”

Rehgar peered at him, then laughed, startling him. “You’re right. I suppose I should say that the  _ journey  _ isn’t all that difficult, but the  _ arrival  _ is. The Highborne are difficult to deal with at times.”

“Mages exiled from normal Kaldorei society,” Lion recalled. “I remember.”

“Very much set in their ways,” Rehgar added. “Valeera’s people had to adapt a great deal to live in their new home, but the Highborne did all they could to keep things just the same.”

“Without the demons or the evil queen.”

“Without those things, yes,” the shaman agreed, and glanced up. “But one can never be too-- look! Through the trees, the sun is catching it.”

Lion looked up, and the sight took his breath away: a pair of massive stone walls stood mostly concealed by trees, and the gate that hung between them seemed equally large. It was hard to make out any detail at this distance, especially with the muted quality of the sunlight at ground level, but he couldn’t help but feel as though he were seeing something magnificent.

“Incredible, no?” Rehgar shook his head. “Orcs don’t build such things. Wood and clay, to keep out the heat and bring in the wind when the season is right. Humans use stone, but they like it for fortifications and protection more than building, and you saw how the tauren live.”

Lion nodded a little, though a haze of pain swept over him and he gripped at his seat. Flashes of images flitted through his mind: tall towers with waving standards, clustered homes, huddled together in lamp-lit alleys, bridges arching over canals, and he missed much of what was being said.

“--proof that they could,” Broll was saying from the comforting dark of the caravan. “Magic built this place, drawing up marble and white stone from the deep places of the earth and shaping it into a city. It was fairly common practice in the ancient days. Not so much now.”

“When you have time and unlimited quantities of magic, you can do just about anything,” Valeera added. “Whether or not it’s in good taste is entirely up to you.”

“Are they not your ancestors?” Bloodeye demanded. “Are you not proud of their accomplishments?”

“If they were  _ my  _ ancestors, they’d be long dead,” Valeera noted. “These are the ones that stayed, not the ones that left.”

“In any case, we’ll be there by nightfall,” Rehgar said. “The first night of High Summer as promised. There’s usually some kind of celebration, so things may be quite busy.”

“Oh, joy,” Valeera and Broll muttered together, and then laughed, startled at their vehement agreement. One of the kodos shat messily on the road, and amusement turned into groans of disgust.

Lion sat back, gazing into the forest. It was not a quiet place -- indeed, there was never a moment of silence when insects sang, birds trilled, and frogs croaked. Wind rustled through leaves and branches, and the caravan itself had its own kind of music, the creaks and groans of the wood as it shifted, the clatter of wheels over terrain, the sounds of his companions going about their abbreviated business, including Rehgar clucking to the kodos, who in their turn made their own grunting sounds as they walked, more or less kept on task.

_ I wonder if they’ll have healers?  _ Lion mused as he let each of the layered sounds enfold him like the blanket in his bedroll.  _ I wonder what food they’ll have? I wonder what they’ll wear? _

He felt as though he’d seen so much along his journey, and wondered if the person he’d been before his memories were taken had been so well-traveled. There was a simplicity to this life, but he was a guest in it. Shown the best of everything.

_ What if everything that is bad is hidden from me? What if Sunna likes to yell or Palerunner is cruel when noone is watching? What if Ak’Zeloth never returns to Sergra no matter how much she needs him.  _ He frowned to himself, disliking the dark turn of his own thoughts, but they dug in, extending talons into his mind.  _ What if the reason I can’t remember who I am is because someone threw me away for being terrible? What if there’s nowhere to return to, but I can’t stay here? What if-- _

A crack of noise startled Lion from his morose musings, and he sat up abruptly, looking around. At the same time, he heard Bloodeye swear and Valeera hiss like an angry feline. Rehgar, infuriatingly, chuckled.

“Fear not, friends. It’s just a little entertainment provided by our new hosts.” Rehgar pointed towards the sky, and Lion looked. Colour exploded in a cascade of tiny points that expanded rapidly, falling towards the earth with a series of crackling clicks. Around him, the peaceful sounds of nature fell silent as creatures fled.

“Fireworks,” Valeera breathed. “Of course. It’s been so long I hardly recognized them.”

“Because who needs to sleep in when you can be indecently awake at sunset?” Broll grumbled. “You’d think Kaldorei would understand that.”

“Daylight’s lousy for fireworks anyway,” Valeera pointed out. “Full dark is best.”

“A true sign of the degenerate nature of the Highborne,” Broll muttered. “What’s special about tonight, anyway? It isn’t even Midsummer.”

“They like excuses to dress up and celebrate things, I believe,” Rehgar said. “And I didn’t think the Kaldorei cared much for the shortest night of the year anyway, or for celebrations of light and fire.”

“We don’t,” Broll said pointedly. “But at least it makes sense to recognize it.”

“The Fire Festival was our biggest holiday,” Valeera said wistfully. “Bigger than Winter Veil, bigger than Hammerfall. A full week of festivities with the day itself right in the middle. I miss it, and you’ve reminded me.”

Lion turned to offer her a smile in sympathy, and Broll touched her shoulder gently.

As the fireworks continued, setting Lion’s nerves on edge, they arrived at the gates.

Rehgar cleared his throat. “Caravan coming in from Durotar, bringing a new gladiator,” he said to the air. “We humbly request permission to enter.”

“Names of guests,” replied the air, bored.

“Rehgar Earthfury, shaman of the Horde,” Rehgar said, and indicated the others should speak.

“Valeera Sanguinar, of the Sin’dorei.”

“Broll Bearmantle, of Kalimdor.”

“Bloodeye Smashfist, of Durotar.”

“Smashfist?” Valeera breathed. “When did you come up with  _ that  _ part of your name?”

“Just now,” Bloodeye growled, trying to keep his voice down. “Be quiet.”

“Lion,” he said, a little loudly. “Just… Lion. I’m a human, if that matters.”

“It does not,” said the air. “A moment.”

“Friendly bunch,” Valeera commented, at more normal volume. “That’s a clever trick.”

“Which part,” Broll asked. “The use of magic when a doorman would do, the disinterest in our friend’s identity, or something else?”

“The sixteen sniper nests embedded in the wall,” Valeera said, indicating from inside the caravan. “And it’s not the kind of magic you think it is. Our doorman is inside one of those columns and using magic to project his voice outside. I can hear the slight reverberation of his voice bouncing in an enclosed space, which you don’t get elsewhere.”

The others were stunned to silence, until Broll spoke again. “Well, that’s certainly an observation. How did you catch all that?”

Valeera shrugged. “Experience?”

“What  _ kind  _ of experience--”

“Welcome to Eldre’thalas, the Forest Home,” the air said again, and the gates began to open. The process was slow, and meant to feel as grand as the doors swinging open to a great ballroom, but as they moved, and the caravan began to roll forward once more, Lion realized that the walls were chipped in places, and the swirls of green that he’d assumed were part of the stone were in fact plants creeping in through the cracks.

The entranceway forced them to bring the kodos around in a wide circle, surrounded by walls with graven images of tall, slender elves in robes casting spells, shaping the very walls, gates, and carvings that they were traveling past, as if to remind guests that all that they saw was a creation of these very craftsmen.

The kodos didn’t care for it at all, and made to defecate again. The moment the waste left them, it disappeared before it hit the marble floor.

“Okay,  _ that  _ I could stand to have happen more often,” Valeera murmured. “Would have made the road less smelly.”

“Road maintenance is an ongoing struggle,” Rehgar agreed. “I wonder where it went.”

“I have a few suggestions,” Broll said, and Bloodeye elbowed him.

The caravan finished its circuit and wound up in a large courtyard. Lion looked around. There were few people here, elves dressed in robes dyed bright, clashing colours -- purple and gold, or red and blue, or acid green and bright yellow -- and a goblin or three, accompanied by huge, hulking creatures with rippling muscles over fat, barely clothed and barefoot, bearing clubs or staves. They walked just behind the goblins like shadows, silent as the goblins they guarded chattered rapidly.

“Ogres,” Rehgar said. “They spent over a decade in Kalimdor before we ever arrived,  and it shows. They can be found in most of southern Kalimdor, though not usually further north than Dustwallow Marsh. Many of them are hired as enforcers, or join cults. They do best when someone else does their thinking for them.”

“They’re enormous,” Lion said. “What do they eat?”

“Whatever isn’t paying them not to,” Bloodeye grumbled. “Do they participate in the games?”

“Sometimes,” Rehgar said. “Other times, they’re the ones betting.”

“Please go to the stable,” the air said. “You can rest your… creatures there.”

“Thank you,” Rehgar replied. The stable here was different from the one at the Great Lift in only superficial ways - it was large, clearly meant for many guests, and some of the stalls were impressively sized, though there was evidence they had been created by removing the walls between some of them.

No stablehands came to meet them, and Lion hopped down to assist the others in leaving the caravan and getting the kodos unharnessed.

“I wonder why they don’t have anyone here doing this?” Lion asked as he worked. “Though they’d probably do it by magic, and that wouldn’t be any fun for you, would it?”

The kodo he was working on snorted its agreement, spattering him with foam.

“Thank you,” he said, and carefully wiped it away. “We have fodder for you if they don’t have any.”

“Animals will be fed as appropriate,” the air said, just over Lion’s shoulder. “And we see no need to do things by  _ hand  _ as less accomplished races do. Eldre’thalas is a city of wonder and magic.”

_ Which is why you can’t maintain your walls properly,  _ Lion thought sourly, but kept that particular thought to himself. “It seems as if magic can do anything.”

“It can,” the air snapped. “Be sure to show your appreciation to the Prince when he receives you.”

_ Oh, I’ll show  _ you  _ some appreciation, you little--  _ Lion opened his mouth, and Rehgar put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t antagonize the doorman,” Rehgar warned, sensing his mood. “There’s a great deal to see here.”

“Of course, Rehgar,” Lion said, and smiled up at him. The orc shaman beamed back, and took a moment to adjust his furs despite the heat. “So how  _ do  _ we get our introduction?”

“Someone will meet with us,” Rehgar said. “In their own time.”

“I feel like everyone else was nicer,” Lion muttered. “Those Sentinels were rude too.”

“Guard duty tends to be dull,” Rehgar said. “Especially so far from home, and this place… the Highborne are doing us a favour, as far as they’re concerned. Opening their city to us, letting us participate in their festival. Much of their existence is one of isolation, of obsession with appearance and status. They live closed-off lives.”

“You sound like you feel sorry for them,” Lion said, unease prickling across his skin at the description. “They’re just snobs.”

Rehgar chuckled. “Things are rarely as simple as they seem, my friend.”

The gifts were unloaded, each tucked under an arm or set down while the caravan waited for ten minutes, watching the periodic fireworks, the guests wandering around, and glancing at every elf that passed close, only to ignore them.

Finally, a woman in pink, purple, and silver glided up to them, her long pale hair swept back in an elaborate hairstyle that looked, to Lion’s reckoning, either like wings, or as though she’d been caught in an electrical storm.

“Greetings from Prince Tortheldrin and the Shen’drelar,” the woman said, bowing slightly. “Welcome, guests. We have facilities for you to bathe and cleanse yourselves before your audience with the Prince. Come with me.”

“Thank you,” Rehgar said. “It has been a very long journey.”

“So I can… see,” the woman said, lifting a brow, and then gestured for them to follow.

_ It was a  _ good  _ journey,  _ Lion thought in protest. Nights under the stars, curled up to one of his friends, days spent talking and laughing or just being alone with one’s thoughts. Conversations that hopped from one topic to the next. Arguing with the kodos or each other. Learning to prepare herbs or cook with even Bloodeye’s grudging approval. Valeera’s clever observations and Broll’s dry wit. Rehgar knowing someone at every settlement they stopped at so they were one and all greeted like old friends.  _ It’s been a good time. _

Despite what felt like a chilly atmosphere, Bloodeye seemed eager to be here, drawn into the excitement of his desired career. He started after the Kaldorei woman as soon as she started walking, with the others following behind at various speeds, leaving Lion to bring up the rear. Valeera, just ahead of him, seemed wary and tense, and while she barely moved her head, he could see the way her ears twitched while the walked, apart from the gentle bob of long, tapered shape.

“What’s wrong?” Lion asked softly, hurrying to draw even with her. “Something’s bothering you.”

Valeera was silent for a moment, seeming to consider. “Nothing, I’m just tired, and looking forward to a bath.” She brought her hand up, yawning and breathing out the words, “we’re being watched and I don’t like it.”

_ Aha, subtlety.  _ Lion nodded. “Well, we’ll get to rest now. You don’t need to worry.”

The elven woman let her hand fall to her side, brushing over the curve of her weapon. “Exactly.”

The pathway through the courtyard was paved with artfully cut and sanded rock. There were many such paths, creating a series of curving, meandering walkways that all merged together near the entranceway into a single, broad thoroughfare. Lion peered back at it, and realized with a start that it was meant to emulate a tree, and the curving paths the branches.

Their branch led them towards a side building, its entranceway lined by columns that were both supportive and artistic, as each held a figure of an elf, their arms outstretched, performing some kind of magical deed, or more rarely, holding a weapon like a staff or a bow.

Lion paused, and saw that some were missing noses or pieces of their ears, and the lack of detail in the eyebrows made him realize with a start that many of the faces were identical, repeated over and over with the same few expressions.

“Don’t tarry,” snapped their escort, and Lion hurried to follow. The building had more people in it than they saw outside, and most of them weren’t elves: there were a few humans here, just as surprised to see Lion as he was to see them, and other orcs -- muscled, scarred, and laying on low tables as elven men and women massaged their backs, working with oil that smelled of herbs. There were other beings -- short, stout gnomes, taller, stouter dwarves, huge, hulking tauren and other beings Lion had been told were gnolls -- but their escort did not pause to greet them, only hurry her way along, out of the room and into the next.

“You may disrobe here,” the elven woman said, “and we will clean your… clothing so that you may continue to wear it, or you can wear some of our guest garb.”

“Will it be in the spectacular array of colours that your people wear?” Broll asked, the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice. The woman glanced over him, and sneered.

“You will get what we give you, or return to your filthy skins,” she hissed. “Our hospitality only extends so far, druid.”

“I never expected otherwise, book sorter,” he replied. “But you promised my friends baths.”

“I did,” she snapped, then took a breath, smoothed her features, and brought her fingers up to test that her hair remained in place. “Once you undress, you will need to be rinsed, then the bath attendants will help you bathe. They will wash you and moisturize your skin and hair, then you will be rinsed again. You will have the chance to have a massage, if there is time before your audience.”

“All of this is for guests?” Bloodeye asked, eager. “For those who will become gladiators?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Magic and money flows in Eldre’thalas.”

With that, the woman turned and left them, leaving them to undress together. Bloodeye started immediately, divesting himself of his harness and trousers quickly, letting them drop to the floor in a small puff of road dust. Lion hastened to copy him, and looked around for a place to put his clothes that wasn’t on the ground.

“I’m sure they’ll just magic them away,” Broll said. “Because no one would be so practical here as to just pick things up.”

“There is power here,” Bloodeye growled. “Power and strength. Surely you can avoid complaining about it for just a few minutes.”

“No,” Broll said, and unfastened his kilt, letting it fall to the floor. He hooked his thumb into his smallclothes. “I can’t.”

The moment they slid low on his hips, Broll disappeared, the curtain that appeared around him and whisking him away so fast that only the words ‘as if by magic’ could describe it.

“I was wondering how they were going to manage privacy,” Valeera said, still fully clothed. “But I suppose that’s clever enough.”

“Did they have such things in Quel’thalas?” Rehgar asked as Bloodeye was given the same treatment. Lion paused as he undressed to hear the answer.

“No,” she admitted. “Even we had to be naked in an entirely mundane way, most of the time. Although--”

“Be quick about it,” hissed a voice in his ear. “The cantrips are getting cranky.”

Lion hastily pushed his smallclothes down, and saw the curtain enfold him. On the other side, there was a small chamber, more like a stall than a room. Two elves waved their hands over him and he was deluged by water, soaking him to the skin. One of them tugged the ties from his hair and hurriedly cast another cantrip that unwound his braids, and the first summoned more water, wetting him until he felt as he had on that first day in Durotar, shivering, disoriented, and a little afraid.

“That’s the best we can do,” muttered one of them, studying him. “You won’t ruin the drains now.”

“Off you go,” said the other. “And remember, the bath attendants will be friendly, but it isn’t their job to sleep with you. If you want to take someone to bed, that’s a  _ different  _ service. Don’t be rude or you’ll be napping in the frog pond.”

“I would never--” Lion managed before one of the elves shoved him out of the curtained area, and he slipped into a much larger room. This one was beautiful and elegant, without the flaws Lion had spotted here and there in the courtyard. All the stone here was polished, though it seemed to absorb the water dripping from him instead of causing it to pool and create a hazard. He walked forward a few steps, looking around.

The walls were green and white marble, the swirls artfully designed to resemble wafting steam, and it took a moment for Lion to distinguish that pattern from the true steam coming from the huge, oval bath in the middle of the room.

_ Bath, it looks more like a small pond,  _ Lion mused, and moved closer. The floor was slightly grooved, making it easier still to walk, in case the water-absorbing stone wasn’t enough, and it led towards a series of steps that led down into the bath, which was lined by seats, clearly meant for attendants.  _ Speaking of which, aren’t they meant to be here? _

Cautiously, he descended the steps and into the bath. The water was warm, but not hot, much to his surprise. At the bottom of the steps he found that there were places to sit and did. It was only then that the water’s temperature increased, heating until it was just shy of scorching. He looked down at at his toes, wiggling them until, alarmingly, the water started to foam.

“Excuse me,” he called out. “What’s going on?”

“Have no fear, guest of the Shen’dralar,” called a voice, and this one wasn’t a projection. Instead, two elves entered; a slender man with pale green hair, dressed in a short robe that showed off toned thighs and a muscled, hairless chest, and a woman with short-cropped pale purple hair, wearing an identical robe.

Despite the warning, Lion’s gaze followed the long, open necklines of their robes down, and both smiled. “You’re… to help me bathe?”

“Of course, it’s our duty and our pleasure to serve,” purred the woman. “You’ve found your way into the bath, so we will help you.” She nodded to her companion, who unfastened the ties of his robe and set it aside.

Lion’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of him -- attraction and politeness warring inside his mind, even as the pain behind his eyes wasn’t sure what to make of it -- and he slipped into the bath, while the woman knelt beside it. Immediately, the male elf began to touch him, stroking the steaming water across his skin and a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding onto seemed to melt away.

He barely noticed that the woman was adding things into the water, and it changed the way it smelled, to something sharp, like pine needles --  _ and why do I recognize it? --  _ until she nodded a little with satisfaction.

“Just relax,” the man said, murmuring into Lion’s ear. “The scent pleases you? Your people tend to be fond of it.”

“It’s… very nice,” he replied. “My name is Lion, what’s yours?”

The man and woman exchanged brief looks, and then shrugged, as though surprised by the query, but prepared for it. “You may call me Ela,” the woman said. “And my companion, San.”

“Those aren’t your real names,” Lion said, as San slid around, and began scrubbing at Lion’s skin with a soft cloth. The touch moved through him in a wave, across his skin and straight down to his groin.  _ Whoever I used to be, I haven’t been touched like this in a  _ long  _ time! _

“You won’t remember us,” Ela promised. “You’re in a dream, and when you wake, you will feel relaxed and refreshed, ready to put your best face forward for the Prince.”

“Doesn’t that expression use a different body part?” Lion asked, and a moan escaped his lips as the pair of them worked. San adjusted his position so Ela could put soap in Lion’s hair, digging her fingers into his scalp and massaging it in until he felt as though he would melt.

“You won’t remember that, either,” San said, laughing a little as he finished with Lion’s arms, and brought his hands up to massage soap into Lion’s face with gentle thumb movements. His eyes closed, and instead of black, he felt as though he could see green.

_ I will,  _ Lion insisted in his own mind.  _ I’ve lost so much that I won’t forget this just because you think I will. _

It was hard to say how much time passed while Lion was being bathed, and instead of feeling childish, it felt intimate, and though the touches were never more than professional, they dug deep into Lion’s skin, and the craving for contact wound upwards.

Once done with his upper body, face, and hair, they worked downwards, along his legs and up his thighs. San disappeared under water for what felt like forever, working on his calves, ankles, and scraping the bottom of his feet with something that felt like a hard sponge, or a very strange rock. All the while, Lion inhaled pine scent, though it didn’t feel familiar to him, didn’t smell of a place he knew, so the headaches remained small, nearly disappearing in the waves of pleasure.

“Come,” Ela breathed in his ear, and Lion’s hips tensed, even as she laughed softly. “Not like that. Your bath is over, it’s time for your massage.”

Lion wondered if he was blushing, or was it that his entire body felt flushed from the heat and steam. “Wasn’t that what that was?”

“No, that was a deep scrub,” San said, startling Lion. “The oil the masseuse will use will make its way into your skin the way it couldn’t before. You’ll be able to relax fully.”

“I’m very relaxed,” Lion murmured, and cupped a hand over his groin. “Mostly.”

Ela laughed again. “It’s an entirely normal reaction. We’ll give you a robe.”

Lion nodded, and San moved away from him, rising out of the water like some kind of sea god, and he couldn’t help but stare as the water ran its way down his body, even as Ela offered him a robe to wrap around his dripping form. There was a brief moment of consultation, and San left, returning with towels so thick and soft that Lion couldn’t help but stare at them.

_ We had nothing like it on the road, just clean cloths. How do they make them so thick? What are they using? _

“I don’t know,” Ela admitted cheerfully, and Lion started, not realizing he’d spoken aloud. “They’re just towels, ready for guest comfort.”

A faint thread of disappointment moved through Lion, though he pushed it aside when San added, “Bed companions will be sent to your guest room after your audience with the Prince.”

“I… thank you.” Lion ducked his head a little. “When does the massage happen?”

“Once you’re dry,” Ela purred. “But that means you need to get out of the water.”

Lion nodded and rose carefully, making his way out of the water on shaking legs. Out of the water, the heat felt as though it had sapped strength from him.  _ Or maybe, I was being held up by tension alone, and now I can barely move. _

Fortunately, this had been anticipated, and perhaps was part of the reason bath attendants came in pairs; San kept Lion upright while Ela unfolded the towels, patting him dry and then winding one around Lion’s waist. They traded off afterwards, with San drying his back and his hair, then twisting it into a bun and fastening it so his neck was exposed.

“Let us guide you,” San said. “You can lay down again soon.”

Lion only nodded as each attendant took one of his arms and led him slowly out of the bathing room. The bath drained slowly, steam and scent and water all disappearing into nothingness.

The massage chambers were not far from the bathing room, and Lion could see that some, like Bloodeye and Valeera, had finished their bathing more quickly. Both of his friends were escorted by two female attendants, wrapped in towels and guided towards one of the low tables. The other three tables were being scrubbed and prepared, the nearest one readied moments before Lion lay down, resting against cool, smooth sheets with a soft sigh.

“This place is  _ incredible,”  _ Bloodeye insisted, even as he settled onto his own table. “There’s nothing like this anywhere else, I’m certain of it.”

“There probably isn’t,” Valeera murmured, resting her cheek against her arms. “What did you think, Lion? Did you enjoy it?”

“I did,” Lion said as the first of the masseuses walked in, stopping by Bloodeye and offering soft explanations. The second went to Valeera, and the third to Lion, presumably to give each of them the same speech.

“I am Fan,” his masseur said. “I will use pressure to massage your muscles and help you relax. Tell me if I use too little or too much, or if I touch a place you find uncomfortable. I’ll work on this side for half an hour, then you’ll turn and we’ll switch. How does that sound?”

“Like heaven,” Lion murmured, and Fan laughed indulgently. “It’s a… good thing. Just an expression that sprang to mind.”

Remembering might bring him pain, and he didn’t want that, not right now. Lion settled onto his stomach, and was offered a pillow for comfort. He could already feel himself drift off as Fan’s hands rubbed oil across his back, stroking back and forth, then applying his fingers to the task of massaging the oil in.

Lion groaned softly into the pillow, and his eyes closed. Like with the bath, it was hard to say how long this process lasted, as caught up as he was in the sensation of being touched. His bath attendants had been correct to say what they had done was cleansing and not relaxing. True relaxation came with fingers sliding over oiled back muscles, digging into spots of tension, two new ones springing up for each one put down, and Fan worked his way down to his lower back, then up again to the place where his head and jaw met his neck, with thumbs that worked with care to dispel discomfort.

It felt like both an eternity and far too little time had passed when Fan spoke softly in his ear, asking him to turn over.

“I don’t want to move,” Lion confessed, even as he pushed himself up on his elbows and turned, trying to move so that his towel didn’t slip away. “It feels so good.”

“It does,” Fan said. “But only so much can be done in one session.” He glanced down. “You know, bed companions--”

“Will be sent to my guest room, I know.” Lion blushed deeply. “I didn’t realize this could happen.”

“We have seen everything,” Fan noted softly, and helped Lion arrange his towel. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Every pleasure worth having can be found here.”

“If you always treat your guests so well, it’s amazing there aren’t more of them,” Lion said, and settled back down, staring up at the ceiling, a mosaic of colour and light, so distant and yet close enough to touch.

“We’re very exclusive,” Fan said, and his hands started to work, massaging Lion’s neck and jaw. “So of course, those we welcome are offered only the best.” Lion’s eyes fluttered closed again. ‘That’s it, just relax,” he murmured. “Everything is fine and nothing will hurt.”

_ That sounds so familiar,  _ Lion mused, even as he heard Broll enter, his friend making a cutting observation at one of his own bath attendants, a man by the sound of it. “Broll, it feels incredible. Don’t worry.”

“Your friend should be more grateful that he’s having a taste of how we live, and not defecating in the forests and eating roots and tubers,” Fan hissed, and Lion’s eyes flew open. For a moment, there was anger, even as his hands worked, but then the emotion faded, smoothed away. “He’ll feel better after a massage, surely.”

“Surely,” Lion agreed, though unease began to seep in past the scents and sounds of groans.  _ Broll has always been so courteous to our other hosts. He’s never had a bad word to say about the tauren or even the orcs, even though something bad happened between the orcs and elves. Could something be wrong here? Could he sense something? _

“Relax,” Fan said, putting just a little force into the word, even as he started to work along Lion’s chest. “Relax and enjoy. There is pleasure here, and comfort. The Prince cares for all his guests. We are all safe and warm.”

_ Safe and warm,  _ Lion mused, and closed his eyes again, taking a low, shallow breath.  _ I could use some of that. _

Though he couldn’t see it, somehow he knew that Fan was smiling.


	10. High Summer, Year 29

“The Prince,” proclaimed their escort upon return to the caravan party, “will see you now.”

Lion fussed with the ties of his robes until the woman’s glare quieted his hands and he straightened. Bloodeye and Rehgar had both requested their clothes back, baring their large green muscles in clothing that had been rigorously cleansed of all dust.

Broll had elected to wear the robes, and they hung mostly open on his broad chest, tied loosely at the waist as though he might throw them off at any moment to scandalize the Highborne. The fit on both Lion and Valeera was somewhat loose, and they’d been brought the smallest adult size that could be found.

“Thank you,” Rehgar said. “Please, lead the way.”

The woman managed not to sneer -- the hints of it were in her cheeks and around her eyes -- and nodded once, gesturing for the party to follow. Broll rolled his eyes a little as Bloodeye hurried after her eagerly, and the others fell in line, with Broll and Lion hanging back.

“You really don’t like it here,” Lion murmured. “What is it?”

“The Highborne have always been wasteful, but something itches at my senses,” Broll said. “Not magic, or not  _ just  _ magic at any rate, but something close to it. An unpleasant relative. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Are we in danger?” Lion asked, worry welling up within him. “Could they be trying to hurt us?”

Broll was silent for a time, considering the question seriously as their escort led them through hallway after hallway of ornately carved stone lit by ensconced torches that had a flame so steady that they had to be magical. The hallway wound around, curving until they reached a set of huge doors in several shades of purple, lined with silver, and emblazoned with the image of a huge, silver tree.

“I don’t know,” Broll said finally. “I can’t tell.”

“Then we’ll just have to see, maybe it’s only that their ways are strange,” Lion said, though unease prickled along his skin.  _ Magic isn’t  _ always  _ harmless. Not if it did whatever it is that was done to my mind to make me forget so much of myself. _

“We’ll see,” Broll said as the doors opened slowly, at a speed meant to be more majestic than ponderous, and their escort stepped through the threshold.

The room they stepped into was immense, larger than anything Lion could recall, in a squared oval shape. There were plenty of people here, all elves, carrying books in their arms or having them trail behind them in the air like pet birds. He could see four huge crystals like pillars, glowing brightly. They seemed to be powering the purple-grey dome in the middle of the room, obscuring whatever lay within.

“What… is that?” Valeera asked, awed. “The power coming from it, it’s so intense.”

“That is the working chamber,” their escort said, her voice a trifle less hostile. “It’s where the Prince’s council works to maintain all our defenses and power structure intact. It’s taxing work, but one of our guests has made great improvements on our efficiency.”

“So, not a guest like us,” Broll hazarded, and she glared at him.

“Certainly not,” she said stiffly. “Come, there is nothing for you over there.”

“Of course not,” Broll replied sardonically, and bowed his head to her. Swiftly, the woman led them along the outside of the room to a second set of doors that swung open noiselessly, and more swiftly than the first.

It led, of all places, into a library.

Near to the entrance there were slotted shelves holding dozens of folded papers, some stacked a dozen deep, while in other places there was only one or two. Lion turned his head, catching sight of only some of the writing -- illegible to him -- before needing to move on. After that there were shelves and shelves of books, some thick tomes, others slender volumes, many of them entirely unmarked on the covers, while others had clearly visible glowing silver writing that seemed to call to him for attention only to realize he  _ wasn’t  _ the one they were looking for.

There were tables as well, long and crowded with papers, pens, and ink, and half of them were occupied. Some of those seated were clearly studying or working, while at other tables, figures were standing or stooping, reading papers and calling out to others who hurried to one shelf or another for a book and brought it to the elf who had requested it. Sometimes, there would be a flurry of activity as the large sets of drawers were opened and scrolls were pulled out, examined, and either taken or returned to their designated location.

In the corners of the library there were lounging areas. There were smaller tables here, and lower lighting, the floor itself recessed slightly. If one walked down the shallow steps, they could find large padded chairs to sit in, with racks of more folded papers, these ones thicker and in a handful of languages, at least one of which Lion  _ did  _ recognize, as that of the goblins. Here and there, he could see potted plants, treated more as decorations than necessary things, and Broll bit back a growl at the perfunctory display of nature.

As Lion was led around, he noted the huge staircase that led to a second floor, though their escort passed by it, into the very back of the library, to the court of Tortheldrin.

In many ways, it felt more like a private study than a royal court, which the vaguest notions of Lion’s memory indicated should be in a great hall, not nestled near a series of bookshelves tended to by diligent assistants. The Prince’s own seat was not unlike a throne, which was expected, but it was at least half lounging chair, well-padded and comfortable, which was not.

Tortheldrin himself was seated, and did not rise for their approach. Instead, he reclined in his chair, his silver gaze sweeping over each of them in turn, pausing on Broll. Lion took a half-step closer to his friend, and gave the Prince a wary look.

_ I hope he isn’t going to cause trouble, like our escort,  _ Lion worried.  _ He would have been told, at the very least. _

“Our guests have arrived,” the Prince said. “How very interesting.”

One by one, the party were introduced, and with each name, a gift was offered. Tortheldrin gestured for one of his assistants to gather the gifts -- Rehgar’s fine piece of beadwork, Bloodeye’s sharp steel knife, Broll’s trinket, and the piece of jewelry that Lion had picked out that looked something like a flower, or a star, and then she came to Valeera, who remained empty-handed.

“Where is your gift?” the woman hissed. “Present it!”

“I would prefer to offer my gift to the Prince in private,” Valeera replied, ignoring her companions and looking only towards their host. “At his convenience, of course.”

The Prince, lounging in forest green and gold robes, toying with a lock of long, silver-white hair, had seemed bored by the protocol he himself had demanded. At this, he sat up a little, and raked her with his gaze. “Is that so? You have confidence, then.”

“I do,” the elven woman said, her voice soft within the confines of the library, but firm. “I’m certain you will be interested by what I have to offer.”

“Very well,” Tortheldrin said with a smile. “I will see you at dawn’s rise, then.” He clapped his hands once, and the sound was sharp. “I am satisfied with my gifts. Now then, what brings you here?”

Bloodeye stepped forward, his voice gruff as he glanced away from the Prince to look at Valeera before finding his focus. “I wish to become a gladiator of the Dire Maul. My friends accompanied me here, and wished to see the city before they returned to their travels.”

“Ah, yes,” Tortheldrin said, and made a dismissive gesture. “I will permit you to travel to the arena and live in my city, but only the Arena Masters can determine if you are worthy. You certainly have the  _ look  _ of a gladiator to you. Anyone else?”

“I represent the Warchief of the Horde and his Council,” Rehgar said, his tone formal. “As such, I have a request for knowledge from the secret keepers of the Highborne, and hope that you will be willing to share with us. An exchange of knowledge regarding elemental manipulation and communion with the spirits is offered, as well as your introductory gift.”

“I  _ had  _ heard there were new races on Kalimdor, more arriving every day. While I doubt there is much you can add to  _ our  _ archives, we would be willing to add something to yours.” He called forth another assistant. “This patron has a request, Lyselle. Do your best to help him, would you?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” the woman, Lyselle, said, and bowed, then gestured to Rehgar to accompany her. “It would be best for both of us if you conveyed your request, er, verbally.”

“My request is also private,” Valeera added, before the Prince could ask. “It’s something that I feel should be discussed at great length.”

“Of course,” Tortheldrin purred. He seemed to ignore Broll -- which suited the druid just fine -- and finally, his gaze fell to Lion. “And what do you wish of me, little mortal?”

“I’m a human,” Lion started out. “And aren’t you mortal too?”

Broll stifled a chuckle. Tortheldrin’s gaze narrowed. “Not so much that one such as you would notice. Your request?”

_ Are you always this pompous, or are you doing it specially for us?  _ Lion wondered, but didn’t speak the thought aloud. “Something happened to me. I woke up weeks ago with no memory in a place I didn’t recognize. I’m here, now, hoping that someone can help me find out what happened. Can you? Can anyone here?”

“Healing is one of the gentle arts we don’t pursue, except as an academic exercise,” Tortheldrin replied. “However, if your condition is magical in nature, there may be something within the archives that could help you. Sindarron, research this.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said a male elf, bowing deeply, and then hurrying to make notes. “Human, we will schedule an interview tomorrow, just after moonrise?”

“That would be fine,” Lion said, feeling awkward and hopeful at once. “Thank you.”

“As alluded, we are the keepers of secrets,” Tortheldrin said. “Of knowledge and arcana, the finest of Azshara’s court--”

“A court which sank into the sea ten thousand years ago, stinking of demonic corruption,” Broll noted dryly. “In case you’ve forgotten, hiding away here with all of your books.”

“And whose fault is  _ that?”  _ Tortheldrin hissed.

“Hers,” Broll replied crisply. “At least, that was what the exiles said to avoid joining her there.”

Tortheldrin began to rise, and a figure appeared by his elbow. He, like Tortheldrin, was pale purple, and had a similar style of white-silver hair. His robes were blue-purple, so dark at the hems that they seemed nearly black, and at the shoulders and collars, so pale they were nearly white. In between, constellations were picked out in silver, winking in the torchlight.

“Your Highness,” the figure said, ignoring the others. “You’re needed in the Atheneum. It’s urgent.”

The Prince seemed to weigh the potential delay of committing rage-motivated murder against an emergency, and nodded once. “Very well, Adaraxiel. This audience is over.”

Valeera glanced sharply at the new arrival, but before she could say more, both of them disappeared.

“You’d do well to watch your tongue,” their escort -- who still had not offered her name, nor seemed inclined to -- snapped. “Your requests will be processed. You may move freely in the guest areas, including the arena, the courtyard, and the service buildings. Do not come here unescorted, it is not permitted, nor will you be allowed in the gardens or the northern residential area.”

“Speaking of my tongue,” Broll said, smiling at the woman. “Where do we eat? I believe I’m quite hungry.”

~ * ~

The next few hours after the audience were somewhat dizzying for Lion. Broll’s request for food had brought them to a banquet hall, where they had been seated and fed. Unlike the meal at the Crossroads, this seemed to be more of a location for many individuals to receive their meals, eat, and then leave without bothering to clean.

The fact that the dishes disappeared as soon as they were abandoned might have been a reason for the latter behaviour but not for the former.

“Only guests eat here,” explained one of the passing Shen’dralar. “Normally speaking. The rest of us prefer to eat in our rooms, unless they’re being cleaned, or we’re meeting someone in a neutral location. We aren’t allowed to eat in the library. It’s not good for the books.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Lion had said. “But what if you’re thirsty?”

“They will serve tea,” they had replied. “Lots and lots of tea. Then we need to leave the library for a  _ different  _ reason.”

After that, Bloodeye had insisted that they find the Arena Masters so that he could sign on as soon as he could, before -- as he put it -- Broll got them all killed.

“He’s an arrogant ass,” Broll pointed out, quite reasonably. For some reason, he’d pulled his robe off, and was using the sleeves as a belt to tie around his waist. “Don’t tell me you’re impressed.”

“You don’t sass the Warchief,” Bloodeye growled. “So you don’t sass a Prince, whatever that is.”

“Actually, Warchief Thrall has a fairly good sense of humour,” Rehgar noted absently, and resumed ticking things off on his fingers while murmuring under his breath.

“What is he doing?” Lion asked, curious. “He’s been doing that since we left the library.”

“He’s making sure he hasn’t forgotten anything,” Broll said. “He was given a scroll, but it seems our hosts can’t read orcish runes, so he’s trying to keep track of all of it in his head.”

“They made it seem like  _ he  _ was the stupid one,” Lion said flatly. “Not the other way around.”

“That returns to the point I made about being an arrogant ass,” Broll said. “Now, I can’t read orcish either, though I can speak it fine. But I would just  _ say  _ that and ask for help rather than making my friends sound stupid.”

“We aren’t their friends,” Valeea noted, breaking her silence for the first time since the end of their audience. “We’re at best tolerated guests.”

Bloodeye grunted, and she gave him a sharp look.

“At worst, we’re barely tolerated guests,” Broll said cheerfully. “Except, perhaps, you.”

“Let’s have it out, you know you want to.”

“What are you doing?” Bloodeye burst out. “If you didn’t have a gift, we would have given you something. He accepted Broll’s idiot flower thing, he’ll take anything so long as he gets his tribute.”

“Don’t blame the flower, thank you,” Broll said, but looked amused. “Well?”

“I meant what I said, I have a gift but it’s something to be offered in private,” Valeera said. “I think that’s all there is to say on the matter. It’s my business, not yours.”

“I have worked very hard to get here,” Bloodeye growled. “So if you assassinate him, that will ruin my plans. I know you didn’t want me doing this, but my mind is made up.”

Valeera laughed, startled, and grasped for his hand. “I promise you, that’s not my intent. I do think you’re wasted on this, and could be doing better and greater things, but I’m not your ancestor or your mother. I can’t make that decision for you.”

Bloodeye stopped, gripping her hand and tugged her closer, resting his forehead against hers briefly. “You’re a good teacher. You should stay for my first match.”

“I will try,” she promised, touched by his gesture, and Lion couldn’t help but smile.

_ They never seemed to like each other much, but friendships take different shapes, I suppose. _

“We’re taking up space,” Broll said, though there was gentleness in his tone, a fondness that couldn’t be hidden by his words. “Let’s keep going.”

The arena was simple enough to find, as it was adjacent to the courtyard. The fireworks display was still going on, and there were more people here, talking and taking walks outside. Following one of the stone paths, they were brought to a vast hole in the ground, nearly the size of the Atheneum, but where the indoor building was a large, empty space, this one had tiers and tiers of seats, from near ground level to the very base of the depression, which was dirt, and being carefully groomed by ogres.

“Here we are,” Bloodeye said with enthusiasm. “The greatest gladiatorial arena in all of Kalimdor. Even Gadgetzan’s Thunderdome is smaller. This is where I will find my fortune.”

“Then let’s go sign your life away to combat,” Valeera said, her tone light. “Since you’re so excited.”

Bloodeye gripped her hand again briefly, and then let go, walking with determination, and his friends followed one by one. This time it was Valeera who trailed behind, and Lion looked over his shoulder at her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, waving him off. “Don’t worry about me.”

“We’re all worried about him,” Lion said, and in a flash of insight, offered his arm to her. She took it with a smile.

“How gentlemanly of you,” she said as they walked. “It’s funny, when we met -- Bloodeye and I, not you and I -- I thought he was something of a brute. Rehgar seemed genteel, and the rest of the orcs were something of a confusing mass, but Bloodeye seemed to fulfil every stereotype and memory of them from the war. He was exactly what I expected him to be, until he wasn’t.”

“I think he does it on purpose,” Lion said. “Like a… persona, an act. Some of it is him, but a lot of it is what people expect him to be. I think I understand why someone would act that way.”

“Because of the damage to your memory?” Valeera guessed, and he nodded. “We all wear masks, Lion. We have to. Sharing every private thought or feeling can be dangerous. We see what we want people to see, no more and no less.”

Lion frowned. “How do we know if someone is being sincere, in that case? If we only let people see certain things and not everything?”

Valeera leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. Lion’s eyes widened, startled. “Just because I  _ want  _ someone to see something, doesn’t mean it isn’t  _ real.  _ It just means I’m the one deciding you see it.”

“I…” Lion flushed. “Oh.”

“When you get your memories back, we’ll celebrate,” Valeera promised. “You and I… and Broll, since that seems to be what you want. Just don’t get too worn out with your bed companions.”

Lion felt his whole face flame up. “I… do you think it’s alright? I’d really like it to be.”

“They’re professionals, just like the bathers and the masseurs. I don’t think you should worry about it too much, but you can say no if it really troubles you,” Valeera said. “Though it’s not something my people worry about. Not unless you start emotionally investing, which usually leads to disaster, six poems, three songs, and an overwrought play based on a novel of the same title.”

“...and it’s different with you and Broll because you think I’m emotionally invested?”

“I  _ know  _ you’re emotionally invested,” the elven woman chided him. “Because we are, in you.”

“I… oh.  _ Oh.” _

“For the record, you’re adorable,” Valeera said, and squeezed his arm. “That’s why we like you.”

Ahead of them, Bloodeye and Rehgar had found the arena master, a massive ogre draped in black metal plates, chained in place around otherwise bare arms and chest. He towered over the orcs, and bellowed to the other ogres, who were dressed in pieces of chainmail, or sometimes, just loincloths and the paint swirls on their skin.

“We test you and you fight,” the ogre was saying. “You win, you lose, but you make it look good. They want a show. They want action. They want blood. You give it, you get paid. You go too fast, you get nothing.”

“What about talent of arms?” Rehgar asked curiously, even as Bloodeye nodded along. “What about prowess in melee?”

“This ain’t gonna be a melee,” the ogre said, his eyes gleaming. “This is gonna be a Maul.”

~ * ~

It was close to noon when Lion woke, feeling cold and alone. His bed companions -- a man and a woman, like his bath attendants, but very different people -- were long gone, and while his attempts to sleep alone had not been plagued with nightmares  _ this  _ time, he still felt uneasy.

_ I want to be touching someone,  _ he thought, retrieving his robes from the floor and securing them as best he could, and ran his fingers through his hair.  _ I’ve gotten so used to it, or maybe it’s something I was used to before. If my wife died only recently, that might be why I’m so lonely. _

Something about the thought, ephemeral as gossamer, seemed to indicate that it was a lie, but answers were hidden behind throbbing pain, and one thing that Eldre’thalas  _ had  _ brought him was relaxation for the most part.

_ So all I have to do is find Broll or one of the others, and then I can sleep again. _

It was possible they might have their own bed companions, but unlikely, considering how late the hour was -- or how early, depending on your point of view.

Lion slipped from his room, wincing at the feeling of the floor. It was cool, in defiance of the heat of the day inside, and the torches were either extinguished or glowing so faintly that it seemed as though they would gutter into darkness at any moment.

He looked over his shoulder, tugged the gauzy curtain close, wondering at how it managed to both make the bed look inviting and suppress sound to create an air of privacy, and began to walk.

There were plenty of rooms here, so the process of finding his friends was harder than it seemed. Rather than rooming them close together, as seemed logical, they were spread haphazardly amongst the other guests, and about one in three beds was actually occupied. Many had quarters closer to the arena, a fact that troubled Lion - not least on Bloodeye's behalf, given what it implied about the status of the gladiators - but didn't seem to bother the orc in the least.

_ It seems so inefficient to spread everyone out,  _ he thought.  _ Maybe it’s easier on their cleaning magic? If there were people tending different sections, that would make sense, but they use spells for everything, don’t they?  _ He frowned.  _ It could be for another reason. It could be to make this place seem more popular than it is. _

The time he’d already spent here had shown the city to be a place of contradictions: it was large but mostly empty. It was fanciful and hedonistic, which was an enjoyable experience to be sure, and the memory of mouths and hands touching him without the restraint his friends showed made his cheeks heat, but it was the home of  _ scholars  _ and  _ librarians.  _ From what he’d seen in the library earlier, the Shen’dralar were people so devoted to studying and research that they forgot to eat or sleep, and didn’t seem to have time for sex.

_ Where are the children?  _ Lion wondered. The Crossroads had plenty of them, some barely big enough to toddle, others running around at waist height, chasing worg pups or toys. There had been youths at Taurajo, raw boned and gangly, even for a race that seemed to tower over him at the best of times, obedient but impatient and curious about everything. Mojache had shown him actual tauren infants, tiny things with huge eyes and hands, and it had made his head ache even as his heart longed for something -- or someone.

_ It could just be that they live in the northern part of the city,  _ Lion thought, checking room after room with the barest glances.  _ But why don't they ever take their children with them anywhere? _

As Lion peeked around one curtain he found what he was certain was Valeera’s room: he could see her pack and bedroll tucked off to the side, and her leathers resting on a clothes horse, as though prepared for her to wear the very next day. But there was no elven woman slumbering in a tangle of blankets and sheets. The bed was empty, and there was no sign of her.

_ Did she go exploring?  _ he wondered, worry welling up in his chest.  _ Where would she have gone? _

The city seemed too big to explore on his own, but if he started with the guest accommodations, he could work out from there. Ignoring the rooms now, he hurried along, trying to find a way out. The corridors seemed to loop around, like the distressed thoughts that chased one another through his mind.

_ She could just be in another room, but why? Is she looking for someone? Talking to them? Taking comfort in them the way I do with others?  _ Memory caused a twinge of pain to prickle through his temples, and his jaw throbbed. He took a breath, dismissing the idea.  _ No, she went somewhere else, but how am I supposed to  _ find  _ her in a place like this. I-- _

He was brought up short by the presence of one of the Shen’dralar. The woman was walking briskly, and from the way she squawked when Lion all but ran into her, she had not seen him any more than he’d noticed her.

“What are you doing out here at this time of day?” the woman demanded, her voice echoing in the empty corridor. “Go back to your room!”

“I’m looking for my friend,” Lion said, his eyes wide with panic that was only slightly put on. “Valeera, so high, blonde.” He indicated. “I wanted to… to spend the night with her. Day. Whatever.”

“Ah,” the woman said, her hostility melting away, replaced by a knowing look, as though sniffing out the potential for interpersonal drama. “Well, you won’t find her here. She’s meeting with the Prince.”

“...since dawn’s rise,” Lion recalled, finally, even as his cheeks heated. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t she be back by now?”

“Not if she was enjoying herself,” the woman purred, clearly in her element. “But if you think you have something to offer her that the Prince doesn’t…” Her silver gaze swept him, judging his haphazard appearance in seconds and clearly finding him wanting. “I suppose I can show you the way.”

“Please do,” he said, keeping his voice firm. “I won’t interrupt, but I want to see her.”

“Very well,” she replied. “This way. Guests aren’t supposed to be able to access private chambers. It prevents incidents.”

“...so that was why I was wandering around in circles?” Lion guessed, and she nodded.

“You would be able to find your way out if you had  _ magic,  _ but we’re very selective about our guests for just such a reason.” She made a gesture, and stepped into the wall. Hesitating, Lion followed, and he found himself in an entirely different set of corridors.

The woman had already began to walk, and he hastened to follow. In many ways, this section of the city was identical to the guest quarters -- rooms kept private by enchanted curtains, torches that kept the hallways barely lit, ornate carvings -- but it felt different, more occupied.

“Excuse me,” Lion asked. “Is this the northern part of the city? Where the Shen’dralar live?”

“No, but yes,” she replied. “The Shen’dralar don’t live with the rest of the city’s population. They live apart, as is their right.”

“Aren’t you all Shen’dralar?”

“No,” the woman said crisply. “The Shen’dralar are a specific group of citizens, the core of the city, one might say. We have received others over time, those who were exiled or wandered away from the shrouded forests. We embody independent thought and action, and the rigorous pursuit of knowledge.”

“...and massages, and baths.”

“We have our own luxuries, but those things are primarily for guests, so that they will remain and indulge themselves. It is like staying at a pleasure resort. Do your kind not have such things?”

Lion’s memories were vague on such matters, and he blinked back pain after a minute of thinking on it. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“A pity,” she sneered. “This is nothing compared to the beauty of Kel’theril, a mere shadow. Some thought us to be austere compared to the heart of the empire.”

“...so why be here, and not there?” Lion wondered. “If it was so much better, that is.”

“Well.” Here, the woman hesitated, even as she led the way unerringly from one place to the next. “It’s easier to study here, obviously. We have resources that they lack and a leader with a particular vision of this city’s goals and people.”

“That sounds… good…” Lion ventured as he followed her. “But, and keep in mind I’ve only heard stories, if the Prince was serving Queen Azshara loyally, why is this place still here? If the old court was destroyed and everything sank into the ocean.”

The woman’s expression soured. “There were some… disagreements as to how things were to be done. Not uncommon amongst the Highborne, and nothing to be concerned about.”

“I thought when rulers of cities fought amongst themselves, people cringed.” That seemed right to Lion, and memories like smoke and dark clouds drifted over his mind, bringing with them the sounds of anger and strife, and leaving pain in their wake. He stopped, putting a hand on the wall to fight it back, to focus on the task at hand.

“That isn’t of any concern to an outsider,” the woman said crisply, and stopped, turning to see him. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know,” Lion said softly. “I wish I knew.”

“We don’t have all day to contemplate your personal problems,” she huffed. “So hurry it up.”

Lion laughed a little, which didn’t help, and took a few deep breaths, letting the pain recede before straightening. Without a word of concern, the woman turned and continued to walk. At the furthest end of the hall were a suite of rooms that seemed immense compared to those he’d passed before, and made the guest chambers seem downright small.

“For the Circle,” she said proudly. “Who keep the city running. Their work brings magic to each part of the city and provides all we could ever need.”

“They must be very powerful,” Lion noted, though he couldn’t help but think of the statues, crumbling away in the courtyard. “Does it all come from them?”

“Well, they channel the arcane magic of the world, obviously,” the woman said, frowning. “There’s no other way. It takes dedication and focus, so they spend their time apart from the rest of us for the most part.”

“Like… Adaraxiel?” Lion guessed. “We saw him when he came to retrieve the Prince.”  _ For an emergency,  _ he added in his head. “He seemed powerful.”

“Adaraxiel the Fire’s Song is not a formal member of the Circle,” she said, sniffing a little. “He has been a guest here for the past several hundred years. He took on an apprentice, and she required quite a bit of training. Something of a rogue gift, as I understand it.”

“...so, what was the emergency about, then?”

The woman paused, her expression confused for a moment before hardening. “None of your business. The Prince’s chamber is through there.” She pointed, and Lion nodded, tugging the curtain aside so he could step across the threshold.

Tortheldrin’s room was open, and from the doorway he could see where he and Valeera sat at a small table, holding a half-empty bottle. In a pair of crystal glasses he could see swirling, shimmering purple liquid, glowing faintly in the low light of the room. Surrounding them were bookshelves --  _ no surprise there, considering his vocation --  _ and then, past a curtain divider, was the largest bed Lion had ever seen, with pillows arranged neatly along one edge, and a side table that stretched along the far wall.

“You enjoyed the tour, I hope,” Tortheldrin purred, taking a sip of the wine. “The vintage we have here should be enough to please anyone, even a prince, or a king. Perhaps even a Sun King?”

“Perhaps,” Valeera agreed, though she kept her hands in her lap. “I would have to discuss it with him in more detail. You understand, there’s a process to this.”

“I think you aren’t really in a position to be picky, Lady--”

Valeera cleared her throat and tilted her head. Tortheldrin, half-caught between oozing insincere charm and genuinely meant menace, turned to look, half-rising from his seat. “You. What are you doing here? These are private chambers.”

“I came looking for a friend, and it’s a good thing I did,” Lion said, taking a step forward. “You’re upsetting her. Come on, Valeera, let’s go.”

“Lion, I’m fine,” Valeera said, smiling. “Go back to bed, I will be there soon. Won’t I?”

Tortheldrin glared at him, struggling to keep the hate from his expression, and settled back. “Fine.” He spoke briefly into his hand, and the woman who had escorted him here came through the curtains to take Lion’s arm, and pull him back.

_ No,  _ Lion thought as the curtain separated him from his friend once more.  _ It is not at all fine. _


	11. High Summer, Year 29

Valeera hadn’t wanted to discuss the events of the previous day when she arrived in Lion’s room a little later, instead insisting on getting him settled so they could sleep. His dreams were uneasy, flashes of images amid darkness, stirred by his concerns.

When he awoke in the early evening, he was clinging to her, and she was already awake.

“Sorry,” Lion muttered. “I didn’t mean to squeeze you so hard.”

“It’s fine,” she murmured back, and reached out, brushing a lock of his hair back. Instinctively, he leaned into her touch, and she cupped his cheek before leaning in to brush his forehead with a kiss. “Did you sleep well?”

“No, not really,” he said, sighing. She released him and he sat up, trying to arrange his hair. “I feel unsettled, like something is going to happen.”

“It isn’t,” Valeera insisted. “Everything is going  to be fine. You’re getting to sleep in a real bed instead of a bedroll, bathe, be pampered. These are all good things, I promise you.”

“It felt incredible, like heaven,” Lion admitted. “But that doesn’t mean something doesn’t also feel wrong.”

“Maybe breakfast will help?”

“Maybe telling me what I saw this morning will help.”

The elven woman sighed. “Lion, I was meeting with Tortheldrin regarding a personal matter. He  was cooperating and we had come to a mutual agreement.”

“That’s not what it sounded like,” he said, and tugged back the blankets, a tangle of silk and linen in a swirl of muted colours unlike the usual taste of the Highborne.  _ Might keep them up at day otherwise.  _ “It sounded like an argument.”

“There was no argument,” Valeera said, watching him as he rose.

“There was a start of one,” Lion insisted, and prowled around, looking for his clothes. His robes had disappeared from where he’d discarded them overnight, and he hadn’t seen his own things since he’d been whisked away to bathe. His sense of irritation, and discomfort, grew. “Who was he talking about? The Sun King?”

“Lion, it’s…” Valeera took a breath. “Tortheldrin believes I am here representing someone important, and in a way, I am, but he thinks I have more influence over that person than I do. He’s wrong. He was trying to charm me, to persuade me, and he failed. I don’t think much of him, honestly.”

“Well, we both agree there,” Lion said, relieved. “Where did they  _ go,  _ they were right  _ here.” _

“Try the closet over there,” Valeera suggested. “It’s a walk-in.”

“But I don’t  _ want  _ to go into the closet,” Lion muttered, and pushed the curtain aside, and found a space filled with robes, each more garish than the last. “I want my own clothes back. I think these ones are making my head ache.”

“We’ll get you to that healer, after breakfast,” Valeera promised. “We’ll stay long enough for that, and to see Bloodeye on his way, and no more. Then we can head back to Mojache and all the way back to Durotar. We might even go to Ratchet, since I’ll need to catch a boat back--” She caught herself a little. “Elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere, but not back home,” Lion said, and found something he could tolerate, mostly blue, but trimmed with gold, curling like flames along the edges, or perhaps waves. “So you’re leaving us too?”

“I can’t stay with the caravan forever, Lion,” Valeera said. “Broll never intends to go home, but I do, one day. I have a job to do and people to help.”

“Rehgar helps people too,” Lion insisted. “He helped Bloodeye, and Broll, and  _ me.”  _ He stepped out of the closet, looking her over. “...but maybe not you.”

Valeera sighed heavily, and beckoned to him with the crook of one finger. “Come here.”

Lion approached the bed, and when she patted it, he sat down. She worked her way to his side of the bed, a thing of several moments, and sat down next to him, swinging her bare legs to dangle from the side.

“Don’t tell Broll,” she murmured, and leaned in to kiss him. The point of contact between them was warm, and immediately, Lion wanted more, reaching for her hand and twining their fingers together. His eyes drifted closed. For a moment, he could see a face, a different face, one without long tapered ears or glowing green eyes. All too soon, she broke the kiss, and met his gaze. “You’re a good man, and I hope that one day you’ll be a happy one. You’ve been wounded so badly that I worry about what caused that damage every day. Yes, I’ll be going, eventually, but that has never meant that I can’t come back, or that you can’t come with me. Goodbye isn’t forever, and when it  _ is,  _ you’ll know. I promise.”

Lion was still for several moments, letting both the words and the kiss swirl through his thoughts. He let his forehead rest against hers, and she smiled a little, squeezing his hand.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he whispered. “No matter what else has happened to me, I won’t forget.”

~ * ~

When Lion and Valeera met up with the others, it looked as though none of them had slept much: Bloodeye was bleary but enthusiastic, having indulged himself enthusiastically in the entertainment the Highborne had to offer, and only liberal application of Broll’s elbow kept him from a constant show of bragging about it. Broll himself seemed pale, his usual pink-purple hue looking washed out. Rehgar, dressed in his travel gear -- albeit much cleaner -- was actually growling, something Lion had never seen him do in the past; not when the kodos were stubborn, or when he stepped in shit, or when the rest of his caravan was squabbling.

“An hour,” he snarled. “An entire hour of argument before I was even permitted to  _ see  _ the caravan after I asked to. Even then, I wasn’t allowed to wander two bloody steps without having someone come up and  _ ask  _ me what I was doing,  _ suggest  _ that I would be more comfortable in my room. Apparently  _ someone else  _ had gone wandering and it had made the Prince paranoid about his new crop of guests.” He sat heavily, rattling the table. “Feh.”

Lion’s throat swelled with guilt and, as he realized when Valeera touched his knee under the table, fear. He looked down at his breakfast, a selection of cut fruit arranged in an elaborate pattern on his plate and then some kind of sauce drawn in a careless pattern over top of it, and said nothing.

“Why were you looking for the caravan, anyway?” Bloodeye asked. Upon his insistence, the staff had brought him meat, and a lot of it, though most of it seemed to be dried jerky. He began to eat at a rapid pace.

“So I could actually  _ sleep  _ in this spirits-forsaken place,” Rehgar growled, and took one of the pieces of meat from Bloodeye’s plate. Bloodeye reached to intercept, and Rehgar slapped his hand.

The sound made Lion jump, and the unease, coupled with guilt, wound within him tightly.

“Share,” he snarled, and sighed. “I’ve spent so long on the road that such soft beds are unsettling. I wanted my bedroll and to see stars. Of course, that was quite impossible during the day, so the light kept me awake until I was too hungry to keep trying. It’s been a trying day.”

“I slept on the floor,” Broll admitted. “I was picked up by the cleaning spells and woke in the laundry. I don’t think they care for me much.”

“But, why? You’re so charming, old bear,” Valeera teased, and pressed her knee against Lion’s. Almost too fast for him to follow, she snagged a piece of fruit from his plate and started to nibble. “Who wouldn’t like you?”

“Usually, not people who refer to me as a bear,” Broll told her, and glanced between them, frowning. “We should speak, later.”

“Any time,” Valeera said. “Though I  _ do  _ have business to attend to.”

“Hm,” was all Broll said in reply, and the rest of breakfast lapsed into silence, with the soft clatter of utensils, chewing, and the occasional grumble.

More than anything, and with a sensation as desperate as a drowning man gasping for air, Lion wished to be gone from this place.

After breakfast, Valeera rose and went with Broll, giving Lion a wave, and Rehgar muttered about wanting to meditate, for lack of proper rest. This left Lion with Bloodeye, who eyed him with undisguised enthusiasm.

“Come,” he said grandly. “Let us go visit the Pit, warrior and warrior.”

_ It’s not as if I have anything else to do right now, it seems,  _ Lion thought, and nodded. “That’s where you’ll be fighting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Bloodeye said, and rose, gesturing for Lion to follow. Lion moved after him, and Bloodeye leaned in, then frowned, and away. “Ugh.”

“What is it?” Lion asked, trying to keep worry from his voice. “I was very thoroughly bathed yesterday.”

“Yes, and that’s just the problem.” Bloodeye shook his head. “You don’t smell natural any more, as a warrior should.”

“I hope you understand that I’m not really much of a warrior,” Lion reminded him. “Valeera was teaching me.”

“No, she was  _ reminding  _ you,” Bloodeye said. “Your body knew the motions, and your muscles didn’t ache and strain as much as a youth’s would. You were definitely a warrior in your previous life, just not the same kind as myself.” He flexed to demonstrate, which Lion acknowledged, and then frowned.

“How do you know? What’s the difference?”

“Muscle builds differently depending on what you’re doing to build it,” Bloodeye began as they walked through the hallways. “And there are many ways.”

Servants -- not Shen’dralar, as Lion now knew -- moved from one place to the next, watching them both as they made their way further into the city.

“One of them is by practicing with a sword,” Lion noted, wishing he hadn’t eaten so much fruit.  _ If I take too many blows to the stomach, I’m going to be sick.  _ “Or an axe.”

“But you would swing those blades in different ways,” Bloodeye said. “They share many of the same muscle groups, but the techniques create a unique experience. Also, axes are  _ far  _ superior.”

Lion rolled his eyes, and Bloodeye actually chuckled.

“There are other ways to build muscle, obviously, than just fighting.”

“Indeed,” Bloodeye said. “Some lift great weights and with different parts of their bodies.”

“...don’t you just lift with your hands?”

Bloodeye slapped him on the back and barked out a laugh as Lion nearly went reeling. “You truly  _ have  _ forgotten much. You can attach weights to your ankles, or use the fascinating devices goblins have to create weights to lift with the whole of your arm, instead of just your hand and wrist. Some lifting is done with two hands above your head as well. This is an occupation for the wealthy, though.”

Lion tried to picture it, and only imagined himself tangled in ropes, trapped to be found later. A shiver of interest went through him, even as another part of him roiled in terror. He shook his head a little to clear it. “Why do you say that?”

“Who has that much time to lift things that aren’t part of one’s work?” Bloodeye asked him, seemingly rhetorically. “Most of those who lift things are labourers, and they have different muscles too, or the farmers we admired on the way here.”

“How do you mean?” Lion asked, curious despite himself. “Isn’t lifting just lifting?”

“Only to the inexperienced,” Bloodeye said, and Lion rolled his eyes again. “When one is specifically lifting weights, they hone certain groups of muscles. The healers speak of it at length and most of it is boring, but what matters is that the muscles look quite different than those of someone who lifts heavy things as part of a work duty, like the tauren who put the caravan on the Great Lift.”

“I thought you were too busy crying like a wounded deer over having to take it if you didn't want to walk,” Lion noted, and Bloodeye scowled.

“Be silent, waif,” Bloodeye growled, and this made Lion smile. Rehgar’s temper was uncomfortable, but Bloodeye’s was as much a part of him as his harness or axe. “The  _ point  _ being, their muscles are different. Slabbier, less showy. A farmer would have different ones again, from bending, tilling, and planting. Scouts and spies have different ones as well, and sometimes muscle sits differently on women even if they do the same jobs as men, but you must always be wary of them regardless. Never underestimate one.”

“I won’t,” Lion said, and considered the shape of Valeera’s arms and legs, entwined with his. “So you think I have a warrior’s muscles?”

“Yes,” Bloodeye said, and smirked. “You’ll get to see her soon enough, by the way.”

Lion’s head rang from the observation. “I… what… how?”

“Your scent changed, under all that perfume.” He flared his nostrils. “I can’t stand the stuff, I made sure they didn’t use any on me during the bath, and the oil was plain enough. You smell like that when you’re thinking of Valeera. There’s a different one for Broll.”

“You can tell that from  _ smell?”  _ Lion asked, incredulous. “How?”

“You human have your vision and your magic if it lacks,” Bloodeye said, snorting. “And the elves have their hearing. Orcs have smell. Body scent speaks to us, tells us things. It’s why we stand in close when we speak to people, and why we hate scented soaps and perfumes. Muddles the senses.”

“...but everyone else uses it,” Lion realized. “Isn’t it terribly confusing?”

“It  _ is,  _ and that’s why most of you are so damned annoying,” Bloodeye replied. “We can’t tell what you’re thinking unless you’re a few days away from it, and even  _ then,  _ you tend to get cranky about being dirty. A little sweat never hurt anyone.”

“How do the elves here smell, in that case?”

“Flowery,” Bloodeye said, sniffing, as though to confirm his nose was working. “False.”

“False?” Lion repeated, even as realization struck him:  _ I can talk to Bloodeye about what I saw last night. Valeera insists nothing is wrong, but Bloodeye might have seen something too! _

“This place is very grand,” Bloodeye said. “And their ancestors have done much with it. I was impressed when I saw it.” This last was an admission that dragged itself out of the orc warrior, despite the fact he had made no secret of it before. “But being here, I see much of it is gilt painted over cheap wood, like the goblins. All show, no substance.”

“You don’t think they’re hiding anything, then?” Lion asked, slightly disappointed. “Secrets?”

“We all have secrets,” Bloodeye dismissed. “This is a pleasure palace. They do have wealth, though, behind all their poor taste and false smells. The arena is real enough, and ogres aren’t impressed by gold for long.”

“I suppose,” Lion said, and sighed. As he and Bloodeye reached the courtyard, the sound of yelling filled the air as barked orders fell from the lips of the arena masters. “What happened between you and the goblins, anyway?”

Bloodeye fell abruptly silent, and considered. He rolled his shoulders a little, not a prelude to violence, but habitual, as though shrugging something off.

_ He won’t answer,  _ Lion realized.  _ He’s uncomfortable.  _ He opened his mouth to apologize when Bloodeye spoke, softer and sadder than he’d heard before.

“I was a fool,” he began slowly. “I grew up in war camps. I was seven, eight summers when the Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer at the time, was captured in battle, defeated by the human Turalyon. He was a different kind of war chief, a general. I marched with my parents. They tended to the warriors, most days. Sharpening weapons, mending armour. It didn’t matter, orcs of all castes were grouped in together. We were rounded up, herded into prison camps.”

Lion felt a shiver of memory, but it was gone before he could grasp it, and he only nodded.

“Mostly, it was boring. We were restless, idle. The warriors would hit my parents, sometimes, for lack of anything else to do. The guards would let them so long as it didn’t become a fight. It didn’t. It wasn’t allowed. They were afraid.” Bloodeye sighed as their walk took them closer to where the fighters were practicing, pummeling dummies made of bound straw and wood, or sometimes each other.

“They weren’t warriors,” Lion said softly. “They were armorers. Didn’t the guards know?”

“Humans see green skin and assume a warrior,” Bloodeye said. “Never mind most of us aren’t truly green. There are brown orcs and pale ones, some that are sooty-green or soft green. Different clans, different traditions, none of which mattered when all you know is hate and fear.”

Lion absorbed this, and words whispered in his mind, a mix of caution and affirmation, and he nodded again.

“Many spoke of overpowering the guards and leaving, but my parents were afraid. They kept their heads down. They didn’t resist. They got to eat, most nights, and so did I. We were kept there for a time, until the attacks started. The Warsong killed the guards and returned the warriors’ weapons to them. My parents went along with them. They had to.”

“Why did they kill the guards?” Lion asked, feeling numb, as if there was something there, something important for him to grasp. “Why not ask for them to be let go?”

Bloodeye looked at him. “They were enemies. The humans had their people captured and in cages. Orcs don’t usually keep prisoners, you know. Feeding people who can’t work will get you killed. They probably expected us to be executed at any minute. We did. We were grateful to live and ashamed to be captured.”

_ It all seems so very cruel,  _ Lion thought, and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to ward off the discomfort. Bloodeye snorted softly, and gestured.

“It’s not how warriors think,” he said. “We went north, trailing in their wake. They were fresh, untouched by defeat, until we were left by the leadership. Ner’zhul. As bad as Gul’dan. Hellscream wasn’t the warrior Doomhammer was, or the leader. The humans tracked us down and stomped on us, and we went to a different camp. It was a few months later when it happened. When the sickness stole over the warriors.”

“Sickness?”

“The humans called it the Lethargy, but we feared it was the red pox at first. There were epidemics when we were on Draenor. I had missed the last one that tore through us before the Dark Portal was opened. I had a sister that wasn’t so lucky. I never met her, she died before I was born.” Bloodeye’s jaw clenched tightly. “It wasn’t the pox, though. It was something else entirely. It was slowness. It was constantly being tired. It was laying down and not wanting to get up again. It was a weakness of limbs, of not caring if you were laying in your own filth or not. It didn’t hit my parents as badly. Hardly at all, really, but that only meant they had to tend to the warriors again. The humans fed us garbage, porridge and stringy meat and soft things, and told us it was for our good. We should be grateful. It was killing us.”

“...they must not have known,” Lion protested. “You need meat, but--”

“Did it matter?” Bloodeye asked wearily. “It was an execution, slow instead of fast, cruelty with mercy’s face plastered over it. We young ones, the ones that hadn’t been warriors but  _ could  _ have been, tried to fight back. The guards didn’t like it. We started trouble. They finished it.  _ I…  _ started trouble.”

“...you didn’t…”

“They were going to beat me to show me my place.” He rolled his shoulders again, and now, Lion knew what it was, the gesture of someone who had been beaten, and learned to cope with the scars. “Maruk intervened, he stood up to them. Nothing he said made a difference to them -- we knew your tongue, but they made fun of us, the way we spoke it, broken and from the gutter -- and they didn’t stop when he fell. Only when they were  _ satisfied.” _

The word came out with a growl that rippled across Lion’s senses. A memory, a face, looming over him. His eyes watered and his mind hurt. Still, Bloodeye wasn’t done.

“They broke him. He never stood up for another again. He could barely  _ speak  _ after that. He couldn’t remember things. We’d tell him, day after day. Sometimes, he would go looking for his little sister, trying to find ‘the baby’. She’s a warrior grown now, with a mate of her own, a troll priestess who dances with scorpions and hates to wear clothes. A Daughter of Draka, like Rehgar mentioned, all those months ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Lion said, finally. “I’m so sorry.”

Bloodeye grunted. “You want to know what this has to do with your question. The answer is that after we were freed, after we were all warriors, after we came to Kalimdor and fought humans and pig-men and horse-men and demons and undead, we were truly free to do all we wanted. I wanted to see the world. The goblins had seemed worldly, so I went to them. They had beautiful things. Bright things, coloured things. Fast things, clever things. Things I wanted so badly I could almost taste them. Things that cost money I didn’t have, copper and silver and gold.”

“...so you borrowed money to get them, or tried to,” Lion said softly. “And ran into debt.”

“Gambling seems so very easy when you hear of it,” Bloodeye said, shaking his head. “Guess a number, spin a wheel, match symbols on cards. There’s a rule, though, one that the goblins know that I didn’t. The house always wins.”

Lion frowned. “What does it mean?”

“That the person who holds the game wins in the end. They make the rules, and those rules always favour them. If you can win, you win big, but more often than not, you lose, so they win. So you lose all that gold. So they come for your head and only soft-hearted shamans can save you and offer to help you find a way out.” Bloodeye sighed. “Rehgar made sure my payments were deferred, that the Warchief’s money lenders would help me, but I must pay them back, and quickly. This is a good way, the best and fastest way. I can make that money back. More, even.”

“You could go home,” Lion said softly. “You could see Maruk again.”

“It shames me to see him so broken,” Bloodeye confessed. “It reminds me that it should be me and not him. He should have a mate, a family, a home. He shouldn’t need his parents to tend to him again until their backs are twisted with age. He was a hero, and he paid for it with a currency no one can repay or replace. His mind.”

“He didn’t save your life so you could spend the rest of it wishing that he hadn’t,” Lion said quietly, and put a hand on his arm. “You’re a good man, Bloodeye. One who’s suffered.”

“Arnok,” Bloodeye said gruffly. “Bloodeye is a duelist’s name.”

“Arnok, then,” Lion said. “One day, I hope to tell you mine.”

“I believe that you will,” Bloodeye said, and nodded. “Come, let’s test our mettle.”

“Very well,” Lion said, and considered. “Why didn’t… did you ever tell your Warchief about this? Or Rehgar?”

“Rehgar knows some of it, but I’m not the type of person meant to speak to Warchiefs,” Bloodeye said gruffly. “Not every child of the new generation can be Thrall. Not all of us master human combat tactics or hear the voice of the spirits. Not all of us get to find our father’s clan, intact, hidden, and preserved against degradation. Not all of us get to become leaders and heroes. Not all of us gamble and win.”

~ * ~

It was nearly dawn by the time Lion properly realized that Valeera had disappeared. He and Bloodeye had spent hours at the arena, honing their bladecraft until they were urged to bathe and relax again by their hosts, then indulged in another meal that was twice as extravagant as breakfast, though just as frustrating for Bloodeye.

While the Kaldorei had a steady diet of meat, owing to their location in the depths of the dark forests of Kalimdor, the Highborne seemed to disregard Feralas’ lush, dark land in favour of looking inwards, to the vast gardens in the eastern part of the city. It was there they grew fruit and plants in whatever order they chose, ignoring seasonal cycles. Animals were of less interest, and they raised few birds and a crop of fish that seemed mostly for show rather than to actually eat.

Sending people outside the city was almost entirely out of the question.

Nibbling on sweet, sticky peach slices made Lion think of Valeera, and the realization that he hadn’t seen her since breakfast was a jolt.

_ I’ve grown so used to us being together all the time. There isn’t much room for privacy or distance inside a caravan.  _ Their conversation filtered back to him, and worry tinged with guilt.

“What wonders does your mind work now?” Broll asked lightly. If the lack of meat bothered him, he gave no sign, and was laying into the meal with some enthusiasm. Bloodeye was grumbling under his breath, and Rehgar glared daggers, his mood not having improved since this morning.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Lion sighed. “Have you seen Valeera? You spoke to her after breakfast.”

“I did,” Broll said. “I wanted to know what was going on with our host. She was evasive, and then left. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Has anyone?” Lion asked, his forehead creasing with worry. “Bloodeye and I were together most of the day, but Rehgar, have you--”

“No,” he replied shortly. “I have not.”

“...thank you anyway,” Lion said, and took a breath, focusing back on Broll, who looked concerned. “I’m worried about her.”

“Valeera is a very capable adult,” Broll said, and popped the last of the grapes into his mouth. He wiped his fingers on a cloth and then laced his fingers together, all his attention falling to Lion.

Lion’s cheeks heated, and he cleared his throat. “We should possibly discuss it in private.”

“Go on, then,” Rehgar said, dismissively. “The sooner we can leave, the better. I don’t much like this place.”

_ Hasn’t Rehgar been here before?  _ Lion wondered.  _ Wouldn’t he know that already? _

Broll reached out, touching Lion’s hand, and nodded. They both rose, and hurried off back towards Lion’s room. They said little on the way there, so when the curtain closed and muffled the rest of the sounds of the city into nothingness, Lion was fit to burst.

“Tortheldrin threatened Valeera last night, I think,” Lion said in a rush. “I went looking for someone to spend the night with--”

“Bed companions don’t stay after their jobs are done,” Broll observed. “And you need to be held.”

“Yes,” Lion agreed. “But Valeera wasn’t in her room. I asked a servant to see her, and the servant took me to the Prince’s quarters, where they were. I didn’t see or hear much, but he seemed to want something from her.”

“Ah, so you were responsible for our diurnal encounters, then.” Broll shook his head a little, but smiled. “You can crawl into bed with me any time, I hope you know.”

“You’re not listening,” Lion said insistently. “He  _ threatened  _ her. He  _ wanted  _ something from her. She said there was nothing wrong when she came back to my room with me, but what if there  _ is?  _ What if there’s something extremely wrong? What if that’s why you and Rehgar are so annoyed all the time? Why my head’s been awful half the time--”

“Your head is paining you?” Broll asked, shifting towards concern. “You didn’t mention it.”

“We’ve been busy.” Lion grabbed for his hand. “Come with me. Let’s ask about it. If I’m wrong then I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am. Please.”

Broll inhaled and let the air out slowly, ruffling his beard. His eyes searched Lion’s face and then nodded once. “Very well, we’ll go together. Lead the way.”

“There was magic involved,” Lion said. “But… it should be this way.”

With Broll in hand, Lion walked towards where he’d met the servant in the hall, but there was no one there. Lion prodded at the wall where the woman had cast the spell, working for several minutes before hitting the wall with his fist and wincing.

“Feel better?” Broll asked softly, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“No, not at all,” Lion said. “I thought it might be an illusion, a fake of some kind.”

“Oh, no, all the walls here are quite solid, but there are short-point teleportation rituals to avoid people stumbling into our private rooms.” Lion jerked, and he looked towards the voice.

The elf that had brought word to Tortheldrin of the emergency stood before them. He was tall and seemed incredibly slender even wrapped as he was in robes, these ones a dark, near-royal purple adorned with embroidered, silver spiderwebs that twinkled in a starlight that didn’t reach them indoors. With him was a woman, smaller and slighter, wearing robes of severe dark blue. She clung to his arm, and peered at Lion and Broll with a curious, but cautious, look on her face.

“I can’t tell if that’s good security or just pure laziness,” Broll said, shifting a little. The elf smirked, and then shrugged.

“Can’t it be both? The Highborne are known for both their paranoia and their ability to be lazy assholes. Stylish, but lazy.”

Lion laughed despite himself, and the sound startled him. The younger elven woman put a hand to her mouth, poorly concealing her giggle.

“Master Adaraxiel has a way with words,” she murmured. “You must be the travelers people have been talking about.”

“We are,” Broll said. “And who are you?”

“Oh!” Her eyes grew wide. “I’m Laentis Skygazer. I’m Master Adaraxiel’s apprentice. He’s been teaching me since I was just small.” Her gaze lowered. “I have… a lot to learn.”

“You’re doing fine, sweetheart,” Adaraxiel said, patting her arm. “You had a question for them, didn’t you?”

“I did?” She considered. “I did! You traveled through the grasslands, didn’t you? Past the forest and into the old riverbed?”

“...the Thousand Needles is a riverbed?” Lion asked wonderingly, and she nodded, eager like a puppy.

“Yes, before the Sundering, that was the Feralon river, a massive thing that led into an inland sea. After the continent broke apart, all the water went right out into the newly formed Great Sea! Whoosh!” She gestured with her free hand. “The land dried up and the animals died. The sea became a desert as it baked over many centuries. I’ve heard that the animals moved back, or certain ones did, anyway.”

“I had no idea,” Lion said. “I’m definitely not that old, and Broll isn’t either.”

“Oh, neither am I,” Laentis said cheerfully. “I’m only two hundred years old.”

“Scarcely more than a child,” Broll murmured, his gaze on Adaraxiel hard and angry.

“Age has never prevented anyone from being stupid, or saved them from being exiled towards a continent that may or may not have existed.” Adaraxiel’s smile was cold for a moment, age and anger glittering in his eyes, as bright and silver as coins, and then he was all warmth. “You’ve gotten distracted, my dear.”

“Right, yes. I have. Thank you.” Laentis took a breath. “So, have you seen the elevator people have spoken of? The Great Lift?”

“Yes,” Lion said, before Broll could. “We even rode on it.”

“Wonderful!” Laentis crowed. “Can you tell me how it works? The mechanisms seem simple enough, but I haven’t quite managed to work out the procedure for keeping them all working smoothly. Weather and time wear on things, you know, and the proper application of lubrication is key to seamless function.”

“Words to live by,” Adaraxiel murmured. “In all occupations in life.”

Lion’s cheeks reddened, and Laentis giggled again.

“We’re not engineers,” Broll said. “We didn’t design them and we didn’t ask those kinds of questions. Why not leave the city and visit yourself since you seem to know so much about the area?”

“I… oh.” Laentis dropped her gaze. “It’s not… I couldn’t. It isn’t safe. It’s not safe to be outside.”

“We’ll visit one day,” Adaraxiel murmured. “When the time is right. I promise.”

Broll opened his mouth to say more, and Lion interjected.

“Could  _ you  _ help  _ us,  _ just a little? We’re looking for a friend, one of our traveling companions. Her name is Valeera. So high, blonde, and she met with Prince Tortheldrin last night. I’m worried about her. We both are.”

Adaraxiel seemed to consider, even as Laentis shook her head. “I can give you access to the Prince’s chambers, but I’m not going to wait around all day. I have things to see and people to do. So, why don’t I give you this?”

Adaraxiel let Laentis go for a moment, though his hand seemed to hover by hers for a brief moment. He reached into his sleeve, and produced a rune that gleamed with light. “This will give you access to the point teleportation spells. You’ve figured out there’s one here. It has limited power, but it will work for anyone.”

“How do you have something like that?” Broll demanded. “How do we know it will work?”

“Oh, it will work,” Adaraxiel said, his tone cheerful, even as Lion took the rune from his hand, and the elf resumed holding Laentis’ arm. “It will work if you’re stumbling around drunk or higher than an esoteric druidic bush. I’m sure you know the one.”

Broll’s eyes narrowed. “And why help us, don’t you work for Tortheldrin?”

Adaraxiel’s smile in return was cold. “First, I don’t, he doesn’t trust me not to interfere with his inner workings. I just observe and pass little things on. Second, I’m helping you because one way or another, the fallout of this will be hysterical.”

“What does that mean?” Lion whispered, though Adaraxiel seemed to hear him anyway.

“Why, my dear human, all it means is that I  _ love  _ drama. Have fun storming the castle!”


	12. High Summer, Year 29

Lion looked at the rune in his hand, and back at Adaraxiel, who watched in eager anticipation, then at Broll. The druid was frowning, but voiced no other objections.

_ Valeera could be in serious trouble,  _ Lion thought, and clenched his fist around the rune. With the other hand, he reached out to Broll, who grasped the offered limb and held on tightly. Carefully, he pressed the rune into the wall and it activated, picking the pair of them up and depositing them in the corridor Lion had seen before, the one that would lead to Tortheldrin’s suite.

“What now?” Broll asked, shaking his head hard in dislike. “Where do we go?”

“This way,” Lion called, breaking into a run. Broll was close on his heels, their feet slapping against the cool stone floors. His head ached a little, but he pushed it back, ignoring it, refusing to give the pain so much as a moment of his attention in the face of his present fears.

In Lion’s mind, the situation had built up into something truly terrible: Valeera captured, tied up and bound. Tortheldrin looming over her, menacing and gloating while her friends indulged themselves in his hospitality, all unaware of her distress and danger.

_ I’ll save you,  _ Lion thought desperately.  _ I couldn’t save Lianne or Father, but I can save you. _

The names that came readily to his mind seared across it, and he cried out, stumbling. Broll lunged to catch him before he fell.

“Lion,” Broll asked urgently. “What is it? An attack?”

“I don’t think so,” Lion said, shaking his head and trying to clear it. “Keep going, we’re not far now.”

“We really do need to find you a healer,” Broll murmured, and Lion began to run again.

Instinct, and memory, brought Lion back to the Prince’s room, past blurring corridors and various curtains. He couldn’t hear anything from the outside, and somehow the privacy spells that had been so thoughtful before seemed menacing and made him feel almost sick to his stomach.

“You said you could shapeshift,” Lion said, eyeing the curtain, considering his sword and Broll’s bare fists. “Can you still do that?”

“I can,” he replied. “Stand back.”

Lion did, filled with nervous energy. He tucked the rune away and drew his sword. It felt right in his hand, meant to be there. He barely noticed when Broll fell forward, and once the transformation began, he couldn’t look away: brown fur sprouted along Broll’s back, obscuring his pink-purple skin. His body thickened, rounded, grew almost bloated as he increased in size by several factors. His wrap fell away with it, and lay on the ground. Lion dared to dart in, and tied it around his own waist, clumsy while trying to keep his weapon on hand.

Broll’s features disappeared in a snarled twist, replaced by the snout of a great creature, a predator wise enough to eat what it could find, and his friend’s hands, so strong and gentle, became paws with claws extended. Dotted along his fur were markings, swirls that Lion didn’t understand, and he realized this must have been what Broll meant when he spoke of the tauren ‘knowing the signs’ of a shapeshifted druid.

“Ready?” Lion asked, a little unsettled. Broll nodded, and Lion grabbed for the curtain with his free hand and pulled it aside.

Broll let loose a roar that shook the walls and charged forward through the doorway, barely letting it slow him. Lion hurried in a moment after, and found that his fears were mostly justified.

Valeera was strapped to a chair, though rather than some kind of elaborate torture device, it seemed as though Tortheldrin had taken every belt he owned and used them to secure her arms and legs. She was seated at a table, and on that table was a huge glowing orb, flickering with a sickly green. Tortheldrin was standing over her, though whatever he was saying was lost amid the sound of Broll’s charge.

“What in the name of--?!” Tortheldrin began as Broll leapt at him in his mighty bear form, jaws opening wide.

“Lion!” Valeera called out. “Broll!”

“We’ll save you!” Lion called back, and did his best to circle around the melee. Broll cried out in pain as Tortheldrin burned him with magic, grasping at his huge, furred body with hands that smouldered. “What happened?”

“It’s not important right now,” Valeera said. “Free me, so we can get out of here. He’s too powerful to fight.”

“Motivation is always important,” Lion said, and brought his sword up, carefully cutting each belt, ruining them for future use. He found that in the face of things, he didn’t much care. “How else will we know how to disrupt him best?”

“Isn’t a bear a good enough disruption?” Valeera wanted to know. Broll had broken off his attack, but was circling, snarling, struggling with his powers, even as Tortheldrin pushed himself up to stand. Green shone behind the silver of his eyes. “He was trying to get me to send a message.”

“A message? Why?” Lion cut the last of the belts, and eyed the orb on the table. “To talk to the person he thought you could influence?”

“That’s the most likely case, yes,” Valeera said, and worked her shoulders. “Call Broll off, let’s get  _ out  _ of here.”

“Easier said than done,” Lion said, pointing. Broll lunged at Tortheldrin again, and only narrowly missed being struck by a great orb of green fire that hurtled from the Prince’s fingertips, striking one of the far walls. Immediately, the tapestries burst into flame before, moments later, emergency spells misted water over them, trying to extinguish the blaze. Broll’s jaws closed around Tortheldrin’s wrist and the mage screamed in agony as flesh split and bone crunched.

“Colour me impressed, and worried,” Valeera said tensely. “He needs to break off. If he kills him--”

“Which one?” Lion asked softly, and locked as her vision was on both of them, Valeera didn’t reply. “Okay, then.”

Tortheldrin drove his free hand into Broll’s side, flames erupting against his skin. Broll opened his mouth to scream -- a roar of anguish and a very humanoid scream of pain -- which allowed Tortheldrin to break free. As they circled one another, Lion caught sight of burnt flesh and charred fur on his friend’s flank.

_ No, this definitely has to end now.  _ Lion looked around, and then back at the orb. It flickered again, and with Lion’s attention on it, it seemed to gaze back into him, see the damage done to his mind, and laughed at his pain. Lion’s expression twisted, and before he could really think about it, he pushed the orb off the table, hard.

Its flight was short lived, but devastating, and it landed on the floor with a crash of splintering glass. The light within the orb exploded outwards, lashing out at those nearby, and Lion pushed the table over, ducking behind it. Valeera was beside him a moment later.

“You  _ fools,”  _ Tortheldrin screamed, furious and in pain. “You worthless, stupid mortals!”

Valeera twisted a little, so she could peek out from behind the table, and Lion heard her suck in a breath. “Broll, come on!” she urged. “Come away from him!”

Broll’s lips, dripping foam and blood, twisted into a grimace as he roared, but he said nothing.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Lion asked Valeera as the flames from within the orbs spread. Tortheldrin’s robes were a ruin, scorched by flame and covered in dark purple blood, and his pale features were smudged with smoke. The green that flickered behind the silver of his eyes could have been the very flames of hell itself.

“How the hell should I know?” Valeera hissed. “Broll!”

“I have an idea,” Lion said, gripping the sword in his hand, his muscles throbbing from the tension in time to the agony in his mind. “I’m going to distract him, you get Broll. We’ll all run together. Ready?”

“What?!” Valeera cried. “No, Lion--”

“One,” he began, and rose a little from his crouch. “Two.”

“Don’t--”

“Three!” Lion ran from behind the table, charging towards Tortheldrin. Sickly green flames danced on Tortheldrin’s fingers, ready to aim at Broll, but in an instant, he changed targets.

“Die, human!” he bellowed, and hurled the flames at him.

Lion raised his sword, as though he could ward off the gout of flames, and it melted through the metal in an instant, creating a ruin of silver steel before it struck him head on.

“No!” screamed a voice that seemed to be half-warped from something familiar into something monstrous.

Green light filled Lion’s field of vision in an instant, looming and huge, and…

...then…

...darkness.

~ * ~

“I still think you should take Jaina up on her offer,” Bolvar said, running careful fingers over his traveling jacket.

He made a face. “I’m not going to rely on magic any more than I have to, especially when Malin’s complaining every other day about the workload.”

“The limitation on the number of trained Archmages at Golden Spire means each one has to do more work,” Bolvar reminded him. He met his best friend and Highlord’s gaze -- sparkling green eyes, just like Bolvar’s mother, Mara, may the Light keep her -- and felt only stony resolve.

“It’s for the best,” he said shortly. “We need to keep everything under control. Minimize external threats.”

“Our own people aren’t--” Bolvar sighed. “Alright. I can keep things under control with the Council for a few months while you’re away. Hopefully, this summit will result in a better future for everyone, but especially the Alliance. We need to keep everything together. For Terenas’ memory, and the generations to come.”

A vision of a child, bleeding, screaming, his sister sobbing in fear, blood dripping from lacerations on her hands, while their mother raves and screams about her son being a monster.

_ I wonder if she could see the future, or if she was just insane,  _ he wondered, and shook his head. “I need to leave now, the ship masters claim a storm is coming.”

“Then you should wait,” Bolvar said. “Until it blows over.”

“We can outrace it,” he said. “But I need to leave  _ now,  _ and not delay.”

“Anduin won’t be awake for another few hours,” Bolvar pointed out. “You should at least let me wake him so he can see his father off.”

He flinched. “No. Let our son sleep. Take care of him for me, will you?”

Bolvar searched his expression, and the look on his lover’s face made him turn away. Bolvar caught his hand. “I will. Be careful, won’t you? The South Seas aren’t exactly safe, and Kalimdor’s not  much better. We need you. I love you, ----”

_ Memory dissolves into darkness, the whispers of mistakes past. _

~ * ~

The storm hit them full force. Turning the ship seemed to do no good, nor did trimming the sails. Water swamped over the deck, carrying away the unwary.

“Stay below decks, Your Majesty,” urged one of the crew members as he pushed his way onto the deck. Lightning streaked across the sky, and the boom of thunder came moments after, like cannon fire striking a wall.

Chaos was everywhere and there was nowhere to run.

“They’re coming!” cried the second mate, her voice high and panicky, despite being a veteran of twenty years. The whites of her eyes stood out against the dusky bronze of her skin, and her knuckles paled as she clenched at the wheel. “Arm yourselves, they’re coming!”

“Who?!” he demanded. “Where’s the Captain? Where’s--”

The answer to both came soon enough as the remaining sailors slid their way across the deck to grab cutlasses. He followed them, snatching up one. It felt slick in his hand, but wiping his palm dry was a losing battle before it had truly begun.

The sky, improbably, grew darker, until he could only see fragments illuminated by lightning strikes. Creatures were coming out of the sea, huge and hulking, dripping with sea water. One carried the remains of their captain impaled on his trident. From one flash to the next, it was gone.

He fought. He fought against things with four arms and a sword in each one. He fought against the massive ones that spit acid in the faces of crew members that screamed until they were impaled. He saw the second mate pulled from the ship’s wheel, screaming as she was torn apart.

Around him, people died, and died, and  _ died,  _ and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He was unhurt, though exhausted, soaking, and afraid, but none of the creatures seemed interested in harming him specifically.

The rest of the crew’s lives had, of course, been forfeit, and the sense of helplessness and anger that rose in him nearly blacked out the words the creature that approached him spoke.

“We have found you, human king. Our master will be most pleased.”

He raised his sword in defiance, and the creatures closed in for the final assault.

~ * ~

Darkness. All around him was darkness. Even when he opened his eyes, the world was a grimy dark grey. It was hard to say how long he lay there in salt-encrusted clothes, stiff and still damp. Eventually, he could make out faint shapes, a wall here, a doorway there, and he knew he was indoors.

Outside, rain pattered softly against the shutters of windows, the sound too muffled to be anything else. Slowly, he sat up.

_ Where… where am I?  _ he wondered, and looked around at nothing. There were walls but nothing on them. A floor -- his bare feet found it easily enough -- but nothing to kick aside. He lay on what seemed to be a stone slab, not even a proper bed.  _ Windows but no bed, what a bizarre place to be. _

He was trying, very hard, not to think of the crew that had died, pulled apart, in agony, so that monsters could capture him and bring him here.

_ I have to get out of here,  _ he decided. He stood carefully, and found his legs shaky, but functioning. He made his way towards the door, holding his arms out carefully as he felt around. He made it to the door in short order and ran his hands along the side, searching for a handle.

There was nothing. His heart pounding, he tried again, and again, and then gave up, and began to hit the door, striking it with his palms.

“Who are you?!” he cried. “What do you want from me? Who do you work for?!”

There was no reply, and the longer the silence from his captors held, the angrier -- and more panicked -- he became. Palms closed into fists, and he punched at the door, screaming incoherently.

There was no sense of time here, just helplessness, just fear, just anger, just cold. Eventually, when he had nothing left but anguish, and a feeling of emptiness, he collapsed to the floor, and shuddered, too drained even to cry.

Within moments, too soon to be coincidence, the door opened, and the light outside was so bright he cried out in pain.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here? Fancy meeting you here, ‘Your Majesty’.” The voice was deep, gravely and male, not quite familiar, but close enough to another that it brought to his lips a name, a name that filled him with anger and disgust.

“VanCleef,” he spat. “I warned her.”

“Shoulda paid us when we had the chance,” Edwin VanCleef, former Chief Architect of Stormwind, and present leader of the Defias Brotherhood, said. “Nice to see you be the one on your knees for once.”

From the light, strong hands gripped him and pulled him upwards, and began to march him along a corridor. As his vision returned to him, he could see Edwin and his assistant were dressed head to toe in black, features obscured by red masks, and his face twisted into a scowl.

“You won’t get away with this,” he said, and hated himself for the cliche. “You can’t just kidnap the King of Stormwind and expect no one to notice.”

“Trust me, by the time we’re done with you, no one will care,” Edwin replied. He maneuvered his captive into another room, dimly lit but larger than the one he’d woken up in.

_ I think so, at any rate,  _ he wondered, and saw that this room was not, in fact, empty. There was a chair there, something that looked like it had been dragged up from the dungeons. There were leather straps on the arms, and a huge securing belt attached to the back of the chair, ready to be closed around him like a crushing embrace.

He tried to yank his arms free of his captors, but was held fast by people who felt hellishly strong, considering the Defias had once been architects and masons, not strongmen.

“None of that,” Edwin said as he was marched towards the seat. “Know your place. Don’t you want to sit on your throne?”

He snarled wordlessly as he was forced down. Edwin secured him to the chair, while the other conspirator strapped his arms down. With nothing better to do, he gripped the arms of the chair and kicked.

“I don’t know why I expected you to actually have some dignity,” spoke a new voice, and he looked up. Striding into the room was an orc. Haloed in the doorway, he seemed to be impossibly large, made larger by the gold-trimmed black armour he wore, and the great, hulking mace in his hands, more like a jagged hunk of metal than one of the beauteous creations of the human forges.

“Monster,” he snarled. “What have you done?”

Blue eyes that seemed to flicker with red looked him over, and the orc smiled with a gruesome, huge-toothed grin. “Your Majesty,” he said, his tones so very human, and it mocked him with every word. “I’ve heard so much about you from Jaina. She went on and on about you, about your strengths, your  _ weaknesses,  _ well… I just had to test them.”

“I knew it,” he said. “I knew I was right about you.” He struggled hard, but it availed him nothing. “You won’t get away with this!”

“You’d be surprised what I can get away with when it comes to Jaina,” the orc said, his voice a purr. “I’ve even gotten away with  _ murder.” _

_ No, did he kill her?  _ he wondered, suddenly fearful. Jaina Proudmoore was not someone he was close to -- they were too different, and he reminded her of too many people -- but he had never once wished her serious harm. The orc gestured towards the doorway, and a second figure appeared there, this one slighter, clad in assassin’s black, features obscured save for a pair of luminous grey eyes that seemed to stare into his very soul.

“No…” he whispered. “No,  _ no.” _

“Oh, yes,” the orc, the one he had been told was named Thrall, said, his eyes glowing red now. “Garona, my dear, please… do your worst.”

As the assassin approached him, he flung his head back; the pain of striking the chair caused his vision to black for a moment, and then it spread, and he was lost once again in darkness.

~ * ~

They had left him alone after what had seemed like years, but had perhaps been only days, or even hours. His mind burned with agony, and it was impossible to tell what they wanted of him. His nerves felt as though they were on fire, and nothing seemed to satisfy his captors.

They had left him in his room, he thought, the one he had woken up in. It hurt to move, but after being tied down for so long, he had to try.

One leg, then two, both hands, his arms. Red pain seared across his vision as he rolled into a sitting position and, for a few moments, let himself just breathe again. When recovery became procrastination, he moved to stand, and that was another few moments of breathing.

He looked up towards the door, and found that it was left open, just a little. His heart leapt as he realized that his captors had finally made a mistake. With a goal in mind, he moved towards the opening and pried it open.

_ I have to get out of here,  _ he thought, looking left and right.  _ I need to warn Bolvar, warn Jaina, warn everyone about the heart of evil that still resides within the orc leadership. Thrall can hide it all he wants under smooth words and false promises, but I’ve seen the truth. I’ve seen what kind of a monster he really is. _

He started to walk, certain only of the direction of the room he’d been brought to in relation to his own, and went the other way, hurrying as fast as he could. The building where he was kept seemed fairly small, a handful of rooms, and with no one to guard him --  _ did they decide I was beaten enough that they didn’t need to worry about me? --  _ the corridors were empty.

In only a few minutes, he found the exit, staring at the thick door as though it might be snatched from him at any moment.

_ Don’t be a coward,  _ he told himself.  _ Move forward. Don’t let anyone see you weak. _

He opened the door, and it pushed outwards. The sky above was dim and grey, and it could have been anywhere from early morning to late afternoon. It was not raining, but from the way water droplets shook free from the door as it closed, it had rained before and could do so again at any moment.

Glancing around, he could see a bare handful of individuals, some the great serpent creatures like those who had attacked his ship, some black-clad bandits, their masks like a splash of blood, or a slit throat in the night.

He shuddered, and made his way around the building carefully. Past the few, thin trees and the guards, he could see water, as grey as the sky, but choppy, the way an ocean would be, rather than the calm of a lake.

_ I’m on an island, which means that somewhere, there needs to be a boat.  _ There was a trickle of fear as the notion that Jaina could be one of the conspirators struck him, and then he dismissed it.  _ Theramore is an island, but there aren’t enough people here for this to be  _ her  _ island. There’s a chance that I could make it to Theramore if I could find a boat, somehow. If I follow the coast… _

He let the thought carry him towards an ugly, grey beach. There wasn’t so much a dock there as a small pier with places to tie equally unimpressive boats. Nothing like Stormwind’s grand harbour, filled with great ships, though there would be one less now. One that would never return home, and he felt the loss of it like a gut wound, another personal failure to add to the list.

_ No time for that now,  _ he thought.  _ Let’s just get moving, shall we? _

No one was guarding the boats, and for that, he was deeply, intensely grateful. He found the most sturdy looking one, a poor specimen amongst many of its kind, and climbed into it. There were paddles inside, and he realized this was likely one of the life boats stolen from his ship, the stamp of the Azerothian coat of arms scratched out and obscured.

Somehow, that only made him angrier, and anger gave him strength. He untied the boat and with some effort -- and half-remembered lessons about boatcraft from Sir Anduin -- he began to paddle, and though his whole body ached, he was determined.

_ Darkness swelled under the water, a sinister promise that he would not make the journey he hoped to, perhaps not now, perhaps not ever. _

~ * ~

There was darkness and there was fire. He could smell the char of burnt hair and feel the soft misting of water. Someone was shaking him, and he started awake. A woman crouched over him, an elf with bright green eyes and blonde hair, her features anxious, and then relieved.

“Lion, I thought we lost you,” she said. “Hurry, we need to go.”

“Who--” he asked, and his throat hurt, as though he’d been screaming for a thousand years. “Is Broll alright?”

“No, but I’ll live,” said the druid. The woman --  _ Valeera. That’s Valeera --  _ offered him a hand and he took it, and was amazed to find himself mostly unharmed. “Hurry, we only have a few moments before Tortheldrin recovers.”

“He tried to kill me,” he said, and rose. “But it didn’t work?”

“Some kind of spell, I think,” Valeera said. “I’ve never seen magical backlash like that, but it won’t last forever. Let’s get you out of here. Can you walk?”

“I can walk out of here,” he replied, trembling a little, and Broll slipped an arm around him, hissing. “You’re hurt, don’t--”

“I’ll be fine,” Broll insisted. “Let’s go.”

Guided by the pair of them, he walked forward with shaking steps, though with each, he seemed to gain strength. He looked around, feeling as though he was seeing much of this place for the first time, decay seeping into stonework that was stained an ugly, sick green.

“Obviously, we can’t stay, but the caravan barely moves faster than a walk,” Valeera was saying. “We’ll have to find Rehgar and convince him to go immediately.”

“And Bloodeye?” Broll asked. “Surely you don’t think he’ll want to stay here.”

“If he feigns ignorance, he might be able to get away with it,” Valeera said, shaking her head a little. “He’s a gladiator now.”

“I don’t think even Bloodeye is the type of orc to enjoy fighting  _ that  _ much,” Broll said, and he nearly fell. “Lion? What is it? Valeera, I can’t carry him on my own. If he falls--”

The memories were all around him, the hulking figures, the darkness, the attack on the ship. The orc, Thrall, Warchief of the Horde, so beloved to some of his traveling companions.

Rehgar’s face, twisted with anger and impatience, floated up in his vision and immediately, violently, he vomited the faint remains of his last meal, generously mixed with burning bile.

“Can you heal him?” Valeera asked urgently. “No, I should be asking if you can heal yourself first, but he’s…” She rubbed her hand along his back.

“It’s never been one of my skills, and we can’t possibly make it to Moonglade,” Broll said. “The Stronghold, perhaps, but it’s on the other side of Feralas on an island. We’d need a boat, and--”

“No,” he croaked. “No boats, no… no orcs. They did this to me. They hurt me, they killed…” He shuddered for several moments before moving to stand. “We need to leave here. We need to get out. If they catch me, they’ll hurt me again. They’ll hurt you.”

“Lion,” Valeera began, and helped him to rise. “Rehgar and Bloodeye are your friends. They’re our friends. They would never hurt you.”

He let Valeera steer him around the pool of vomit that had seemed so huge when he’d brought it up, and so pathetic on the floor. “They’re lying. They’re all liars, you can’t trust them. Their leader, their…  _ Warchief  _ gave the order. He has an assassin. She… she murdered my father when I was a child. She pretended to be his friend until she could stab him in the back.”

Broll and Valeera exchanged a long look, and the druid spoke first. “Lion, it’s not that we don’t believe you, because we do. You’re our friend, but you’ve just been hit by a magical spell, and I don’t think you’re in the best state of mind right now.”

“I’m not… that’s not my name, and I’m not crazy,” he said, and pushed away from them, determined to walk on his own. He could feel parts of himself fitting back into place like a puzzle. The ache to be touched and comforted shoved roughly aside to conceal weakness. Perhaps it was already too late, but perhaps not.

In his pocket, he felt a weight, and plucked out the rune. The magical object felt slick in his hand, unpleasant but necessary, like all mages. Magic had done this to his mind, foul sorcery. Hate and distrust welled up inside him, and he forced it back.

“I need to go to Theramore,” he said aloud. “I need answers.”

“Of… course,” Valeera said. “Just, if you aren’t Lion, who  _ are  _ you?”

“My name,” he said thickly as they reached the end of the hall, and he pressed the magical rune to the wall, “is Varian Wrynn.”

End Part I


End file.
